


Our ribs are cages for our monster hearts

by Mothwood, Plouton



Category: Bleach, LOVE DEATH + ROBOTS (Cartoon)
Genre: Aizen is still the worst™, Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Angst, Asphyxiation, Choking, Drug Use, Extreme SadoMasochism Fantasies, Fighting Equals Flirting, Forced Prostitution, Gore, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sonnie's Edge AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25118827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothwood/pseuds/Mothwood, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plouton/pseuds/Plouton
Summary: "FROM THE LEFT, COMING IN FROM A HOT HOT HOT WINNING STREAK, THIS YOUNG UPSTART'S BRINGING THE HEAT! HEEEEEERE'S ZAAAAANGETSU!" The announcer's voice is thunderous and the audience, gore fiends, pit junkies, and high rollers all howl along with him, feet stamping and shaking the gladiator pit walls."AND ON THE RIGHT WE HAVE THE KING, THE REIGNING CHAMPION OF THE RING LAAAAAAAAA PANTERAAAAA!"Grimmjow finds Ichigo's gaze from across the pit for a long molten second. Sunstone gold to electric blue.All hell breaks loose.Sonnie's Edge || Cyber Punk AU
Relationships: Grimmjow Jaegerjaques/Kurosaki Ichigo
Comments: 55
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

Grimmjow crams himself into the back corner booth of the hole-in-the-wall shithole rave club they’re at, wedged uncomfortably ( _but safely_ ) between a wall and Harribel. A dirty glass of… he peers through the hazy, cigarette filled air, at the brownish liquid. If he’s lucky, it’s whiskey. More likely it’s some sort of illegally homebrewed moonshine. 80% alcohol designed to knock even someone like him flat.

Next to it sits a little pile of pills on the dirty vinyl table. Ecstasy or Star Dust or whatever the fuck Edrad decided was a good idea to fuck him up with.

He presses a finger to one of the little white pills. It feels like chalk. He could crush it and snort it if he wanted. He considers it for a moment, before removing pressure. The pill lifts away from the table with his finger, sweat serving as a good enough adhesive.

“You don’t have to take it,” Harribel reminds him. Her eyes, pupils blown wide enough to swallow the green entirely, never stray from the crowd. Her leg bounces under the table. She hates to stay still for too long, but he’s not in a position to move yet.

Not so soon after the fight tonight.

He won, of course, he usually does. Normally he’d already be several drinks in and celebrating, a woman on each arm and a mile-wide grin on his face, dancing and grinding along to some song with a heavy baseline and losing more and more clothes by the minute.

But Pantera took a… pounding tonight and he wasn’t prepared for it. He should never have expected Antenor to fight clean though. So the blame can only fall on his shoulders.

“Hey,” Harribel leans into him for a moment, squishing him firmly between herself and the wall - solid pressure to subtly remind him which body he’s in. “Did you hear me?”

Absently he nods. He did. She sounds like she’s speaking to him underwater, like the steam of the room has a substantial muffling effect. He stares at the little white pill, the drug he needs to slip properly out of his head but stay firmly in his skin, and presses back against Harribel’s shoulder. His grip tightens on the glass. Anything to keep himself grounded.

She doesn’t move under his weight and he can feel her steel skeleton against his shoulder. “I can round up your squad and take you back to your room,” she offers.

It’s hollow.

They both know Grimmjow can’t leave yet. The champion skulking off before the festivities have even properly started? No, that would look suspicious. He should be ecstatic after his victory in the ring. High on the adrenaline of ripping his enemy apart limb from **fucking** limb, and Trepadora had eight of them. Tentacle fucking hentai cunt of a bio-beast.

“I fucking _hate_ that guy. I’m going to properly gut him next time,” Grimmjow grinds out in response, before finally pressing the pill to his tongue. It bubbles and dissolves, leaving a bitter taste behind even when he swallows it with the aid of his moonshine.

It doesn’t taste coppery like blood and he’s grateful for that at least.

Harribel doesn’t disapprove, she knows he needs it.

He grins at her, already feeling the effects - hypersensitive to the way his eyes dilate out of their inhuman slits, to the way his heart pounds against his ribs. He feels looser, more relaxed. Fuck it feels _good_. He blinks into the strobe lights and downs the rest of his drink just as Edrad circles back to the table with the next round, Nakeem at his shoulder.

They slide into the booth across from the pair of Espada.

“Di is running some background checks now, I think he’s got two or three girls lined up depending on if you’re feeling up for proper work or just a show tonight.” Edrad cuts straight to the chase. He glances at the remaining two pills and back at Grimmjow’s face, “You have those two and I’ll tell him you’re working.”

Grimmjow scowls reflexively, “or we could just _not_ prostitute me out for the night. I _won_.” The anger slips away quickly though, along with his attention. It’s hard to focus over the throbbing music and his head already feels muddled. He glances down and his empty glass is full again. He drinks it.

Edrad sighs but it doesn’t carry over the sound. “We’ve had this conversation before, Grimmjow, we need the support and this is how Aizen wants it done. What’s the harm, you fuck one or two pretty girls, make a couple k out of them, maintain your rep and sponsorships, and everyone’s happy.” Everyone meaning Aizen and the girls.

“Where’s Shawlong.” Grimmjow asks instead of arguing (again). What Aizen wants, Aizen gets. And everyone understands that the Espada are just as much merchandise as the Beasts. Human rights don’t apply to anyone who came out of a test tube.

“With Pantera,” Nakeem swaps his glass for Grimmjow’s empty one. Harribel gives him a disapproving glare but he shrugs. He’s run the numbers. Grimmjow can have at least one more before they hand him off to his first client and he’ll probably not vomit on her. If he passes out though, that might be in his favour. It’s always hard to tell with the kind of crowd that finds itself in the pit bars post gorefest.

“Hmm.” Grimmjow nods and lists a little to the side. “Did he say she’s okay?”

“We’ll tell you tomorrow,” Edrad promises, glancing over his shoulder to search for the final member of their crew tonight. Grimmjow follows his gaze but the lighting must have gotten worse since he first got here with Harribel, he can’t see Di through the writhing mass of bodies.

He can see Luppi Antenor though, sitting in his own booth through the blue green red steam. He’s got his own team with him and someone between his legs. Disgusting pig. Grimmjow bares his teeth at him, surging up when the rage runs hot through his veins. The hard edge of the table and Harribel’s unmoving arm stop him.

“Woah there,” Edrad puts a palm on his chest to shove him back down. He drops, uncoordinated, and Nakeem pushes the glass closer to him.

“Simmer down,” Harribel orders, “Not tonight.”

“He should be fucking dead!” Grimmjow growls, staring death at the other man. “Should have fucking _murdered him_!”

“Not **tonight**.” Harribel repeats, her arm pressing Grimmjow back into the booth and holding him steady. “If he dies tonight then what was the point of this?”

“I don’t _care_ how he fucked over Aizen!” Grimmjow wraps a clawed hand around Harribel's wrist but he doesn’t even break the surface, only manages to rub his palm raw against her sandpaper skin.

“You should. Otherwise tonight wouldn’t need to happen.”

“Fuck him!”

“You might have to.”

Grimmjow’s head whips towards her so fast the room spins - _oh is he this drunk already?_ \- “The fuck did you just say to me?” His voice is steady and cold, blue eyes narrowed in lethal threat.

Harribel is unfazed. “I said you might have to. If that’s what we need to do to recover that DNA sample before Antenor sells it to one of our competitors, or _worse_ , uses it, then that’s what you’ll do.”

Grimmjow bares his fangs at her and a growl reverberates in his throat. She stares back at him. “I won’t do it. That bastard--”

“I know what he did. I was there, Grimmjow.” Harribel interrupts him. Green eyes fixed on him. She sees him. Sees the way he’s holding his glass so tightly it might shatter, and she can see the white rims around his irises - eyes wide in rage and hate (and fear). Her gaze is understanding, sympathetic.

He hates it. She pretends to understand but she doesn’t really. Harribel was made to be something looked at: pretty, tall, blonde, and busty. His hand tightens further against her rough skin, her metal bones don’t even slide underneath his grip. She wasn’t made to be touched.

She sighs, “Hopefully you won’t have to. Tonight will go well and tomorrow you can murder him.”

Grimmjow snarls, holding her gaze a moment longer before he backs down. His head is swimming and her steady arm across his chest feels nice. Whatever Edrad’s given him is doing its job at least. He just needs to play his role for the night and he can get his revenge on the sick fuck tomorrow.

He dares another glance across the room and nearly starts when he realizes Luppi is watching him back. The smug asshole is leaning back against a low lying leather couch, vibrant purple eyes practically glowing as a self satisfied smirk crawls across his face like poison. A pale hand drops from the back of the couch to caress the back of the person’s head - Grimmjow can’t tell from this distance if it’s a man or a woman - slipping white fingers through thick pale blue hair. Luppi holds the eye contact, even as he thrusts his hips harder, pushing and holding the pit junkie’s head down, choking them on his cock. He doesn’t cum until the person on their knees goes limp, their legs sliding out from under them and their arms dropping to the floor.

Luppi laughs, high and cruel and Grimmjow shouldn’t be able to hear his grating voice over the music but he does. Or maybe it’s just in his head. Grimmjow may have won tonight’s battle, but somehow even after ripping Trepadora’s head off with his teeth, he doesn’t feel like he came out on top.

He grits his teeth together and blindly reaches for his glass. He raises a finger in Luppi’s direction and down’s the rocket fuel in one shot. “I want him dead in a gutter by tomorrow sundown. With or without that fucking sample.”

Grimmjow purposefully ignores the conspicuous set of glaces between Harribel, Edrad, and Nakeem in favor of pressing another of the little magic pills to his tongue. The less he thinks, the less he feels, the less he remembers the better. “Let’s get this fucking over with.”

* * *

Grimmjow wakes up wrapped in a cottonsoft woven blanket and propped up in the back of a moving vehicle with the splitting headache of someone who drank way too much the night before.

“Mmung,” he manages before tilting sideways and retching loudly over a bin someone had preemptively placed on the floor next to him.

“Good morning Mr. Grimmjow,” Shawlong greets blithely, glancing at him through the rearview mirror. “Glad to have you back with the living.”

Grimmjow heaves again over the bin before wriggling a hand free to accept the bottle of water Di Roy is shoving in his face. “W’re ‘re we?” He manages after a few sips of water.

“We’re just about 2 hours outside of Reébus-Kah,” Shawlong replies, “After such a grueling battle yesterday, we naturally wanted to be on the road early to get back to the workshop and start on repairs.”

Grimmjow is feeling gross and slow, but he still picks up on the second meaning. _Mission was a success. We may have a tail. Needed a head start_. He shoves himself up, a hand pressing momentarily over an eye as the world takes a moment to realign. Fuck he must have drunk a lot. He doesn’t remember feeling this shit in a long time.

“Where’s Tiburón?”

Di Roy nudges him and points out the window where Hallibel is speeding along beside their truck, blonde hair hidden under the matte black motorcycle helmet. “They shipped him back last night after his opponent got disqualified for illegal modifications.” He hands Grimmjow a few pain pills.

Grimmjow mutters a thanks and slumps back in his seat.

“How are you feeling?” Edrad asks after a moment. Twisting in the front seat to look at him, dark eyes assessing their Link.

Grimmjow squints back at him, voice flat, “peachy.”

He doesn’t remember which room he stumbled out of this morning. He’s not so sure he remembers who’s room he stumbled into either. Was it a bedroom? No, a bathroom? Bathtub? He scrunches his eyes closed against the harsh morning light and puts his head between his knees so he doesn’t have to look at Di Roy.

He wants to ask about Luppi but if his squad isn’t speaking straight they must have a reason to think the truck is bugged. The extraction mustn’t have gone as well as they had hoped.

He distracts himself, lifting his head to glance at the mirror. “Pantera’s okay?”

Shawlong meets his gaze in the reflection. “Yes. There are a few…. Injuries we were unable to stitch up properly overnight but she’s holding stable and I don’t expect we will need to get the clone prepared.”

Grimmjow scowls, hateful and heavy for a split second before the truck hits a bump and he’s spewing into the bucket again.

Di Roy pats him on the knee. Sympathetic. For a second, Grimmjow wants nothing more than to lean over and bite his face off.

“She’ll be fine.” He says at last, because **he** _will be_. He has no choice.


	2. Chapter 2

Ichigo Kurosaki doesn't think of himself as an inherently violent person. 

If anything - he's family oriented. Protective, yes. This little group he's gathered tightly around himself, going from dive pit to dive pit with their Beastie, he would rather die than lose even one of them. (Codependent as they all are, at this point. After so long together.)

Orihime smiles at him, halfway terrified as Zangetsu is wheeled down and away to the little section to the side of the pit. Las Noches is the fanciest place they've ever fought in, but in the end, it's still a _B_ _eastie pit._ Smells like blood and bile even in the prettier white corridors. The Sharp tang of cheap alcohol and piss gives it away for what it truly is. (Ichigo wishes he couldn't distinguish every single separate trace and scent.) 

Uryuu walks around, with him. Usually Chad would be on his other side, but--he's busy, this time. Settling things. Chad is usually the one posted to hook his arms around Ichigo's ribs to keep him from-

He isn't even _in the link_ and he's already having trouble keeping his head on straight. It's just another pit. One that'll pay better. One where they can make a bigger name for themselves, for Zangetsu, and when they leave, they'll get better paying rates at other pits. 

Uryuu sits him down at the edge of the pit; it's smoother than the last one. He has an actual chair, a slim metal railing in front of him to give the illusion of closed-off protection. 

The black light sparks off his tattoos. The dragon curls up his chest. He flexes his hands along the arms of the chair, searing UV red across his knuckles in star patterns. He can't even recall the exact year he got them. 

Uryuu checks the signal of Ichigo's interface on his tablet, and Ichigo inclines his head. Uryuu slides the tab up the screen. 

Ichigo drops out of his body. 

Into Zangetsu's. 

He can feel the vibrations through the glass, rippling in the liquid around him. He breathes it in and the levels start flushing out, the hiss of hydraulics as the panel slides open and it all spills over the metal grating.

Another _filthy_ pit, stinking of blood, no safety rails. People clamouring and screaming and stomping, causing the vibrations. He’s so sensitive right after entering the link. (He’s _always_ sensitive, _always_ linked.)

He flexes his claws, one by one, then his feet, each joint popping pleasantly (too many joints), steps out of the pod and onto steel. The armour plating prevents him from feeling the temperature of the floor, or the tackiness of the remaining liquid that makes it shine, drip-drip-dripping now that there isn’t a source flow.

He snarls and drops his tail, letting the scales drag metallic across the ground, leans forward, heavy onto all fours. Smaller, now, be smaller, let them _underestimate me, us, Ichi-getsu, Zan-go._

His forked tongue drags against the insides of his mouth, over and over teeth and teeth and _more teeth_ , made to consume, rip drag _mince our prey’s flesh._ He breathes out steam and his outermost teeth part to do so, and his human form does the same, in tandem. Weak little cold lungs cannot produce the same effect, but the muscles move in exact synchronisation.

He’s seated, up on one of the podiums, vaguely aware of Uryuu at his side, (waiting to grab him if he leaps off the edge, a close thing, sometimes the pull is so strong he mimics _too much_ ) but the overlap of sensation makes him shake his head, hiss. Zangetsu and Ichigo press together at the seams until it all feels the same, one thought process, one mind. No frayed edges. 

But there's too much conflict with the lingering connection to the human body, so he breathes out again, and focuses on the here-now-pounding of the crowd washing over reptilian senses. Block out the human. 

He exits into the pit, and the grate slams down behind him, trapping him in there. ‘Trapped’, like he couldn’t scale the pitiful stone walls with ease, no more complex than climbing a child’s backyard playset. He snarls, guttural and long, low, when the announcer calls _his_ name, _Zangetsu_ , and dismisses it as visual particles, not flesh-blood-sustenance. Instead he scents toward the other entrance to the death-ring, anticipatory, barely suppressing the urge to raise his tail in a long lazy line of movement, swaying, displaying his strength. 

No, no no, _we choose surprise over intimidation._

The other _Beastie_ steps out, and it’s all slow, lumbering, jutting horns (not as spectacular or sharp as _mine_ ) protruding from it’s head, and down it’s shoulders. _No grip to be had there. Straight for the killshot-_

Any hope he had of a _challenge, make both my bodies twinge with pain and scream with agony, so I can EARN MY KILL_ evaporates when the beast turns, waves its arms up - two sets - and is still _posturing_ when the announcer fades away, signalling the start of the match.

Zangetsu doesn’t play fair. He loses all the false weight and lunges as his opponent turns, gores it in the exposed side under it’s secondary limb with one hand down to the base of his knuckles, every finger blissfully sheathed in warm meat. It bellows in pain, brings it’s upper fist down on top of his shoulder blades- but Zangetsu wouldn’t just _expose his back_ if it was _weak and tender_ and the spines come out with a flex of the ligaments under his scales, and the enemy _impales itself_ , tearing it’s hand free and bringing spines along with it.

Karin and Hime will make them grow back. He pulls away, spraying gore with his claws curled and fingers spread for maximum damage on the way out, too, ducks a swinging blow that nearly makes the beast overbalance. 

He doesn’t recall its name. He doesn’t care to, really. It doesn’t deserve one, not like him. Not like him and his Ichigo. Him and his Zangetsu?

Uryuu rests a hand on his shoulder and it transfers through scales back to flesh. He reigns it in, hauls ass when his moment of inattention ( _split_ attention, fuck, he wishes he could just stay in Zangetsu, more his body than the weak, unscaled, lacking claws _meat sack_ that is Kurosaki Masaki’s son, Yuzu and Karin’s brother-not-brother-)

He brings his tail around in a graceful arc as he sways backwards, serpentine, out of the way of _another_ telegraphed shot, seriously, did this beast’s link-up never fucking learn to _fight_ \- the spines come out from his tail with a wet _snick_ and slam into the thing’s _other_ side, so many holes, does it even have a proper defense? Fuck. Pathetic. Not even good to eat. Easy battle, what a _waste,_ he wants a _challenge,_ something _worth dying for_.

His mouth snaps open and- severs a smaller hand at the wrist, _all that armor plating isn’t worth shit, really, you need better designers._ He spits connective tissue and bone, _howls_ and drives his bloodsoaked claws up under the soft of the chin, into the brain( _scrapes the top of the skull from the inside_ ) when it staggers back and it’s three and-two-thirds arms splay open.   
  
It’s heavy, and limp, dead weight balanced on only one limb, and he snarls in derision, drops it like so much useless meat. _Uryuu taps him again, he’s flicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, muscles bunching and coiling, he’s sweating on the podium and walking closer in the pit, his human throat shouldn’t be able to make that sound but it echoes Zangetsu so well._

He peels his eyes open and stares into gold-on-black, Zangetsu arched up against the wall to stare at him, nose to nose with barely any space between. He tilts his head, Zangetsu mirrors it- _he tilts his head, Ichigo mirrors it,_ and the announcer screams his victory over the speakers. 

Ichigo is colourful under the uv lights, glowing white teeth drawn to match Zangetsu's outer layer, the neon red dragon crawling up his chest under the tank top he wears, every detail lovingly rendered, and Uryuu's blue crosses stand out along his throat when Zangetsu turns his gaze to the other human. _Also pack._ Not as pretty as the sisters or the Hime, but close. Not as handsome as Chad, but close. He’s smart and ruthless. Ichigo loves him. Loves all his pack.

He turns, drops back down as the grating comes up again, the rusty squeak of battered metal, and Karin is waiting by the pod as he crouches to something closer to her height. _Sister,_ he rumbles, a soft coo, and she smiles. He nudges her, gentle, and she swears under her breath as he smears blood up along her shirt from his muzzle. He laughs, something _close_ to it, anyway, chuffing, steaming breaths. She pets along his scales and he climbs into the pod for her to seal it up and fill it with the nice, quiet liquid again. So he can semi-sleep and let the human body run the show.

For now, at least.

One day-

He closes his eyes.

* * *

Grimmjow leans heavy on the side of the railing, staring down at the clean up crew as they start to power hose down the concrete pit after tonight’s Beast Battle. Took less than two minutes for the white one to rip its heavyweight opponent apart. Scraped it’s brain out of it’s nose with foot long claws.

It had been boring, and Grimmjow’s willing to bet that if he’s not impressed, neither’s Aizen, but who’s Grimmjow to say. 

Zangetsu… huh.

Pretty Beastie if nothing else with the porcelain white scales and blood-red patterning. It’s a bit unusual that a bioengineer would go through all of the effort to design something like skin patterning but some people give a fuck about how pretty their monsters looked. 

…

Grimmjow sorta gives a fuck about how pretty Pantera looks, but that’s because she’s _Pantera._ She’s different. 

But some snot nosed brat like whatever the fuck Red’s name is should pay more attention to how dangerous he can make his Beastie over how pretty it can look. 

Grimmjow’s gaze flickers over to where the young blonde girl has been negotiating with Aizen for the last five minutes. She’s stupidly young and way too pretty - gonna be a real looker if she lasts long enough - to be in a place like this on her own. Silly bitch, flouncing around here like being part of a Beastie crew is gonna keep her safe. If she’s not careful someone’s gonna grab her. 

Grimmjow sighs. At least he know’s he’s not the one being haggled over. Pantera’s still too ruined from that fucking worm, Antenor. Zangetsu will probably end up in the ring with Murcielago. Or Santa Teresa if Aizen is feeling bloody about it. He fucking well might be. 

Poor kid’s gonna have his monster fucking ruined either way. If Grimmjow gave a shit, he might pity the bastard and his team. But he doesn’t. Empathy is wasted on the weak and Grimmjow feels so little of it anyway.

“Jaegerjaquez,” Aizen waves a hand at him in summoning, polite in the use of his last name while they are in public. It grants the illusion of a more united front. “If you could please accompany Miss Kurosaki back to her crew? They will be taking up temporary residence in the Sixth Sanctum until the next scheduled bout. Direct them on how to deliver their beast to Szayel’s.”

Grimmjow grunts, head nodding in agreement before Aizen finishes speaking. Demoted to errand boy. Fucking great. 

He didn’t think that Aizen was _that_ pissed about Antenor, it’s not like they completely butchered but apparently he is. He wonders of Hallibel has been sent out to do grunt work too. It would explain why he hasn’t seen her since they returned to Las Noches. That or Aizen is purposefully keeping them apart for some reason. Maybe he’ll hunt after Mila later to figure out what the yarn is. 

He rocks off the railing and nods for the girl to follow him, pleased when she doesn’t try to fall in step with him. They are _not_ equals and it’s a good thing she recognises that on her own.

They walk in silence back to the west gated holding chambers and Grimmjow is almost surprised to see how quickly Zangetsu’s team had him packed away and resuspended. No damage to check over he guesses. 

“Oi! Kurosaki,” he glances over his shoulder. “Get yer team packed an’ I’ll tell you how to get where you’re going. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

Kurosaki nods quickly; ducks around the man with a polite, grateful smile. 

“We will try not to be too much of a bother, then” - she tries her best to fold her mouth around his difficult last name - “ _Jah-ger-ja-ke_ -san.” 

Naturally she butchers it completely, but he doesn’t stop and correct her.

She puts two fingers to her mouth and whistles, once, sharp. The orange-haired Link turns his head to her; still wild-eyed, shadowing a girl with black hair and the same face as Kurosaki, like he’ll shatter apart if he’s left even slightly alone. There’s some manic energy to the curve of his spine when he hunches in on himself ever so slightly. Like Grimmjow used to do when he was still young and new to the switch. 

The biotechnician who sat with Red on the balcony flicks his hand over the outside of the tank, keys in the security lock on the little holopad, and then lifts his tablet to peer at the screen in satisfaction, light reflecting off his glasses and Grimmjow can get a pretty good read of the beast's stats. The entire tank-system hums, it’s low quality but functional, as it follows slowly behind him; checking the movement system of the pod itself while the vet examines the Beastie’s levels on another tablet entirely. 

No combat injuries means no work for her. 

Red’s eyes finally pull from Kurosaki’s and land on Grimmjow.

Grimmjow sees the raise of his shoulders and the shrinking of his pupils and Kurosaki moves away from Grimmjow’s side immediately, creating distance until she can grab the Link’s hand firmly. Comfortingly. Seems the Link has a territory issue.

Grimmjow knows what it looks like when someone sees a _threat,_ and clearly Kurosaki does too with how quickly she moves to preemptively de-escalate the situation. 

Grimmjow watches as the Link forces himself back down, presses back under his skin, and smiles at Kurosaki slightly. He positions himself between the other young woman and Grimmjow. Protective of the smaller ones. 

Kurosaki clearly notices too, and her gaze softens momentarily. She takes another step closer to her Link’s side and brushes the back of his hand with careful fingers - grounding, probably, like Hallibel’s steel arm across Grimmjow's chest.   
  
“Lead the way, please.” Kurosaki chirps, still unerringly polite even as she stays a half-step in the ginger’s shadow, now. In the pod the Beastie’s tail taps against the glass.

“Hn.” Grimmjow’s eyes flicker, recalibrating to the new information and evaluating present threats. “Yer beast’s going to Szayel’s in 8th Sanctum. Yer engineer and yer biotechnician can have access to designated locations with supervision. No vet access until after the fight. No one else in or out on pain of bullets or whatever the fuck they use,” he explains quickly. 

Scanning the ginger fuck’s form, it's easy to see the kid’s riled. Yellow cybernetic eyes tracking every twitch of his muscles for any sign of attack. A soldier? Nah, too young. He can’t be much older then blondie Kurosaki. Strong maybe, but smaller and twitchier than Grimmjow ever was. Not exactly the kind of person Grimmjow would want to put his back to. Grimmjow hates him on instinct alone, and his instincts are _very_ good.

He inclines his head anyway in the thinnest veil of politeness.

"The rest of yer crew can come with me. I’m only gonna take ya as far as the floor. You figure the rest of yer shit out on yer own. If I hear of any misbehaviour while you’re in Aizen’s custody and in my territory,” Grimmjow straightens from his slouch with a slow roll of his shoulder, blue eyes narrowing and voice smoothing out from his usual drawl, “you and yours will be answering to me _directly_. I am not known for my mercy. Do we have an understanding, Kurosaki.” 

There is no room for argument in his voice, and it ends with a quiet, tense energy lingering in the space between them all. Though he is speaking to the manager girl, his eyes never stray from Red. If one of them is to react poorly to such a blatant threat, it is him. 

The Link doesn't seem to appreciate the information at all. 

Kurosaki squeezes down on the jumpy Link's fingers, and it’s possibly the only thing that keeps him from lunging forward, his whole body going _tense_ in a split second. He bares his teeth and growls low in his throat and she rounds him, drags his gaze down to her as she lifts his hand and pats the back of it. The motion is mostly obscured by her body, and Grimmjow has a moment of respect for the balls it must take to put her back to him when her Link sees him as such a danger. 

The Beastie in it's pod shifts, tail pressing against the glass lightly.   
  
“He’s just doing his job, nii-san.” She murmurs, low, soothing. 

The ginger- _also Kurosaki_ \- looks hesitantly between her and back up to the Espada _._ He scowls, looks away, but he loosens his stance. 

Kurosaki turns back around to face Grimmjow and smiles again. He can see the way she forces up all of her softness and sweetness, an innocent, calming veneer. Well practiced, and well intentioned. Grimmjow hates it.   
  
“Yes, we understand Jea-ger-jaquez-san!” She flicks her gaze a little, clearly frustrated with her inability to pronounce it. “Thank you for your assistance!”

Behind her, the technician scoffs slightly, but the dark haired girl the link was following stays quiet, assessing. Dark eyes flick between Grimmjow, the link, and Kurosaki. 

Grimmjow’s gaze stays leveled on the boy bent around Kurosaki. For a second there he thought he was going to get to deck the snot nosed brat. 

“Don’t thank me. Yer the one payin’.” He glances at the girl, before scanning the rest of the room. He glowers at the twink in the glasses for a moment and winks at the busty round faced vet, before circling back to the trio of… siblings, not cousins, now that he’s paying attention. His nose is pretty reliable when he focuses past the scent of tank juice. 

He cocks his head, “Yer Linked havin’ a neural glitch, or is that a rabies issue?” Maybe he’s looking to pick a fight. Maybe he just wants the kids to realize they ain’t gonna be safe around here just cuz they’re the celebrities of the weekend. “We got doctors but they ain’t cheap.”

The Beastie thumps more firmly against the glass, tail shifting and yellow eyes obscured by the murky liquid that _should_ be keeping him sedated. Kurosaki glances over her shoulder and past the Link towards the vet, with a stern gaze, probably. Grimmjow can’t quite see from this angle, but the vet winces and her face flushes in embarrassment. 

_Sorry,_ she mouths, _he’s having trouble settling down for the sedation._   
  
Kurosaki turns back, her smile a little less bright, now. “I’m sorry about him, please, let’s just get Zan to, um, S-Sza-ayel’s? And us to our quarters."

The Link bares his teeth at him over her shoulder, all displeasure and lingering _hunger, hunger, fight me, let me reign supreme over the ring of carnage._

But he doesn’t say anything, and Kurosaki fails to suppresses a sigh of relief when he lets go of her hand and moves over to the sister instead, dragging his knuckles through her dark hair with a quiet, raspy ‘you still have blood on your shirt. Did I put that there? Sorry,’ and the vet shifts closer to him, too. 

“Please, Jeager-jaquez-san. We don’t want any trouble. I’m sorry for his behaviour.” She’s getting smoother at saying his name, but not quickly. 

Grimmjow scoffs. “Whatever. Let’s go.” He turns on his heel, decisively, but remains poised in the event the ginger kid tries to take him from behind. His heavy military grade combat boots are completely silent against metal grating and he can hear as the group behind him starts to follow. “Yer tech can wait here until someone collects the lizard.”

* * *

Ichigo has to focus on every step he takes, trying to narrow his attentions back down into his body- it’s difficult, with the _obvious threat_ at the head of their little group, as he follows his sisters and the _man,_ and he’s going to have to let them keep his body away from him- No. Not his body. Zangetsu.   
  
The shoes he’s wearing, simple slip-on canvas flats somehow feel too heavy, constricting. He can't flex his toes and balance properly on the ball of his foot, to compensate for the weight of the tail- he doesn’t have a tail, _don’t overbalance_ . No weakness. Recover faster or you’ll be too slow when the _not human, is he a beast, what is he, dangerous unknown,_ attacks. 

Zangetsu will be _fine_ even at a distance, it doesn’t disrupt the link- anyone touches him (Zangetsu, touches _Zangetsu_ ) and Ichigo will know. 

_And he will eat them._

Jeagerjaquez is... undeniably _gorgeous_ in terms of human attraction. If Ichigo was in a better headspace he might be actually enjoying the view, but instead his eyes are locked to the back of the man’s (not a man, not human, what _is he_ ) neck, dragging along his shoulders to try and pre-empt any movements he might make. He’s too jumpy for this, right now, right after a fight, he’s too cold and reptilian still. Wishes he could have had more time, quiet, sitting by Zangetsu as Karin, Hime and Uryuu move around him, soothing in their behaviour. 

He already misses the previous dive pits, second rate and messy, where no one would question a Beastie pod and it’s Link sitting together in a side room.

“Kurosaki.” Grimmjow speaks over his shoulder. 

There’s something about the orange Kurosaki that’s keeping him on his toes. Grimmjow always listens to his gut, his instincts are razor sharp, honed artificially to integrate large quantities of information beyond the human senses. He knows better than to ignore them. So now he talks calmly, his voice level and inexpressive in the same way one might talk to a dog as it growls and salivates. More to keep him focused on something else than the exposed back of his neck than for the sake of conversation.

“Did you arrange for security while you’re here?”

“No,” Yuzu hums, perfectly calm, perfectly unaffected, “-we don’t usually. The one time we hired security they tried to steal from us.” 

Ichigo remembers that. They tasted so good in his jaws- ( _Zangetsu’s jaws, not his, get it together._ ) 

He and Chad are good enough security- and he’s seen Uryuu down a man twice his size in two smooth movements. He wonders absently why the predator is asking, what purpose the question carries. Wishes once more that he didn’t have to follow along with Yuzu and Karin while Uryuu and Hime stay with Zangetsu. Wishes they could all stay with Zan.

This whole place sets all his warning bells off. 

“Huh.” Grimmjow shrugs a shoulder, “well fuck those guys, I guess.” It’s not an unusual story in some of the shadier pits with lock-in hotels. It’s clear from the answer though that this team stays wherever they fight. They don’t drive in and out for the battle with their monster in the back of a truck like almost everyone else. 

No major lab backing this team up. Just a couple of brains and a kid who looks like he came out of the link still thinking he has claws. 

His entourage approaches the entry gate to the Sixth Sanctum, walking past the line of other people waiting to get into the ground level club. The parties after a fight are always raucous and scandalous, usually Grimmjow would be in there working. Tonight though he gets to take a pass (thank god). 

The security guards open the doors for him without question, and Grimmjow ignores the jeering, flattering, and aggressive shouts as he bypasses the long line of irrelevants. 

“After you,” he waves for the Kurosaki’s to enter the rave. Fortunately they don’t have to force their way across the whole dancefloor and bar. The security guards at another side door are already waving Grimmjow’s guests into the VIP section and through to the private elevator at the back of the room. 

Grimmjow follows them inside. “Level 9 is rooms. It’s where you’ll be staying for the week. 1 through 3 is drugs, alcohol and gambling, not necessarily in that order. Levels 4 or 5 have access to the pit auditorium, 6 is mess and shops,” he explains, keying them in to the bioscanners and granting them access to their permitted floors. “Any questions?”

Yuzu shakes her head politely and Karin fixes Jeagerjaquez with a curious gaze, but keeps her mouth firmly shut.

Ichigo doesn’t trust himself to talk, packs the instructions away in his mind instead. He’s _so strung out_ and uncomfortable. The brief walk through _crowds_ only made it worse, made him want to _lash out, drag his tail across the floor and scrape claws over bone._

He needs to eat something, he hasn’t had anything all day. 

The thought leaves his mind as soon as it flits in, and he knows, absently, that Yuzu or Chad will make sure he eats, at some point. He still can’t quite force himself to turn his back on _the predator_ and keeps him visible in the corner of his eye.

“Great.” Grimmjow grunts flatly. 

The elevator stops on the 9th floor and the heavy metal door lifts upwards to reveal the corridor. Grimmjow nods his head for them to get off, but he remains unmoving. 

“Aizen-sama will have told you which rooms are yours. You don’t need me to take you further.” It’s more a courtesy to them then anything else, no one likes another predator knowing where you sleep. And now comes his least favourite part of this job. He smiles brightly for a brief moment in something like genuine happiness - he thinks of Pantera, her beautiful claws and the whiplike tails - and settles his expression into something charming and slightly roguish. He rakes a hand through his hair and barely flexes, ignoring the way his shirt rides up a bit. 

His normal job when he’s not tearing through competition in the pit, and the reason Aizen keeps him around, is all about flirting his way into some gullible slut’s pants. For information, for leverage. Whatever it is. He’s got a week to do it; better start now. 

“Lemme know if ya need anything, Kurosaki-san,” he nods again at the little blonde girl and pretends he doesn’t notice her twin check him out. They’re both too _young._ The pretty vet was clearly not interested either, back with the pod, but he could work on her, though it might be more effort than it’s worth, with how ditzy she seemed. Which leaves the crazy Linked, the prissy biotechnician, or the Mexican heavyweight he saw with the group before the fight. At least one of them looks like he might be good in the sack. 

Ichigo’s entire body goes tense again. Just when he was _starting to wind down_ the predator tries _something_ and it sets everything off again. The cool, collected gaze going _soft_ and his body language turning _friendly_ and it screams diversion. Distraction. _Lies._

The predator’s body and behaviour are just as much weapons as his teeth and claws and Ichigo puts a hand on each of his sisters at the backs of their necks, covering the weak spot, and gently pushes them out of the elevator, his shoulders hunching up when he’s forced to let Jeagerjaquez see his back.

“Ichi-nii,” Karin hisses, excited and annoyed in equal parts, but she doesn’t fight him, “- that’s the one who pilots _Pantera,_ her speed is _incredible_ and her flexible spine-” He squeezes gently and she stops, but the pout on her face is _evident,_ she desperately wants to try and grill the man for everything he’s worth.

No. Absolutely not. His little sister will not be a meal for the predator. She is not prey.

“Thank you,” he tosses over his shoulder, completely sincere, the most human he’s sounded so far, the closest approximation of the soft young boy he used to be, a brilliant smile, but his eyes stay cracked open _just in case_ , “We will be sure to let you know.” 

Yuzu waves kindly, smiling as she too looks back, careful, keeping her steps in pace with Ichigo’s. She’s never seen him so _rattled_ by someone, he's sure, because he never really has been. Not like this. 

Grimmjow lifts a hand to wave back, teeth flashing in a smirk and head tilting to the side. He winks when the darker haired one turns around again. Kurosaki with the black hair can’t be any older than 16. Fuck, she had _better_ not be his only option.

The elevator door closes between them and Grimmjow leans against the wall for a second, checking the holoporter on his wrist for any incoming messages or updates as an immediate distraction so he doesn’t have to swallow down bile. 

A short video of Edrad snorting a line off a woman’s chest greets him and Di Roy spins the camera around just as Nakeem body tackles Shawlong in the background. ‘ _Get ta the 6th Circle, ya cunt! We need you ta pull up our average,’_ the hologram breaks up and Grimmjow checks the time. Thirty minutes ago, yeah, he can sink a few for sure after that disastrous encounter. 

No work. Just a distraction.


	3. Chapter 3

Ichigo comes down still tired and mildly disoriented from the abrupt disconnect from Zangetsu. In and out fights always put his mind through the _blender_ and when he’s eaten and re-centered himself (shoved his face into Chad's shoulder and breathed in tandem while Hime ran her fingers through his hair, and Uryuu draped his long skinny legs over their laps while Karin rested on the floor with her weight leaning against his knees and Yuzu made tea in the other room) and the neon lighting of their lights in their temporary living quarters stops instigating a headache, he takes his wallet from Yuzu and -

_Alcohol._

He wants a fucking drink. Preferably something sweet, just enough to get tipsy. No need to get drunk again and kill someone. (Happened once, once was enough, he still can’t get the guy’s face out of his head.)

When the elevator opens he’s blasted with obscenely loud music and _strobe lights,_ which, while fair, he isn’t exactly a fan of. He squints and lopes out of the elevator with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and his shoulders slouched. His small stature makes him less of a target. 

Under the brilliant colours his hair isn’t nearly as obvious, he could be blonde instead, and he lifts one hand to scratch absently at his throat as he claims a seat at the bar. It really is a _claim,_ there’s so many people milling around it, he’s lucky he’s _fast._ Someone gives him a dirty look when he snatches the chair, he doesn’t care, and the noise swells, his senses - 

_Overwhelmed -_

When he can focus again he’s cradling a drink, a few credits lighter, _how much time did he lose, not much, it’s the same song playing,_ and he sips at it with a hum. 

His eyes track a droplet passing down the outside of the glass through the condensation before it hits his thumb, icy cold against his skin, and Ichigo thinks that maybe he shouldn't have come down here alone after all. It’s too easy to disassociate or hyper focus on the wrong thing right now. And if he tunes out his surroundings, he becomes vulnerable. (He might open his eyes to the inside of the tank instead of the bar.)

Something sparks along the back of his neck; some survival-based awareness and he snaps his head up, forced into a much more alert state with a rush of unwanted adrenaline, heart quickening in his chest.

Ichigo looks around, eyes moving rapidly over the churning mass of bodies out on the dance floor to the less mobile, calmer ones standing in clusters around the bar and the edges of the real movement; and the answer to the question of why his danger sense just went off so violently presents itself in the form of a head of messy blue hair. It's vaguely purple under the club lights and his UV tattoo’s shine brilliantly off his skin in teals, turquoise and bloody reds. His grin is too wide, sharp, pupils blown to the size of old world coins, his hair is a disheveled mess and there’s glitter smeared along one cheek. He doesn’t look anything like the paramilitary soldier he first presented himself as. 

Ichigo doesn't get the chance to contemplate shotting his drink and making a break for it before Grimmjow spots him through the haze and the lightshow. 

\------- POV CHANGE

Grimmjow’s prey is _heeeere~ right here in the bar like he belongs~_ God he fucking loves it when they make it easy for him. 

He doesn’t wait even a moment before forcing his way through the writhing and gyrating bodies towards Kurosaki, and bursts into an obnoxious cackle when he leapfrogs over some shortstack to stumble in range of the bar. He bodily shoves the man in the seat next to Kurosaki free and when the guy tries to protest he slams a steel boot down on delicate toesies. 

Ichigo winces at the bizarre and violent approach and purses his lips in mild annoyance, eyes slanting half-shut in confusion.

Grimmjow ignores him temporarily and thumps the table for the bartender’s attention and points at whatever Kurosaki is drinking when Melony looks at him reproachfully. She always says she’s gonna cut him off one day, but today is not that day. 

“Hey, Kurosaki!” Grimmjow hollers over the music, grin wide and unguarded now his blood alcohol is creeping towards 0.2%. He does refrain from touching the kid though without permission because he knows _he’d_ punch someone for that, and Grimmjow has a b-e-a-utiful face if he does say so himself. Smashing it with a fist would be a low for the day.

  
“Jeagerjaquez,” Ichigo huffs, pitching his voice just loud enough to be heard, “-can I help you?”

He feels lax, calmer now than he was before, it’s the work of the alcohol for sure. He tilts his head a little, drags his eyes down tan skin - the flashing blacklights don’t allow him to see what ink the man’s boasting in its entirety, but Ichigo can tell it’s extensive - then back up to the man’s face. (Not a man, a predator, don’t forget, Zangetsu is never wrong.)

“Yeah, yes you absolutely can,” Grimmjow agrees immediately, and is it just the flashing lights or does Kurosaki look _good_. Good enough to eat, at least. “I wanna know what yer name is!”

Ichigo stares, blinks slowly, (nictitating membranes only, so he doesn't have to truly look away from the man) and huffs. 

"Ichigo. You know my last name. What's your first one, then? Just to be fair." He sips his drink again, wonders exactly how drunk Jeagerjaquez is. 

Grimmjow sounds the name out to himself, searching for the Japanese translation in his memory bank, “Pretty name for a pretty hunter,” he settles on when he comes up empty. “‘M Grimmjow, but lottsa people just call me Grimm, cuz it’s a mouthful, hard to remember.” 

He offers a hand to shake which he hadn’t bothered with the first time they had met.

Ichigo shakes his hand cautiously, keeps his grip loose, _notathreatnotathreat_. 

"Nice to… Meet you, Grimmjow." He offers, delicate, his other hand still curled possessively around his sweet drink, ignores the _compliment? He thinks it's a compliment_ because he knows he's not pretty; _elegant_ , perhaps, with lots of his mother's features, but he is feral and walks with an inhuman gait and slope to his spine and bends his legs too much-not enough. He freaks people out. He's not pretty. (He hasn't been pretty since he was fifteen.)

Melony places Grimmjow’s drink at his elbow and he turns to her distracted for a moment, “and can we get shots, Aizen-sama-kun is payin’.” Because his boss always pays for him, especially when he’s working. Which he _wasn’t_ but Ichigo came all this way down here to the bar _by himseeeelf_ and so now Grimmjow _is_ working. Technically. 

Oh right, his train of thought swings his attention back to Ichigo, who’s eyeing the beleaguered bartender with a hint of confusion in his gaze. Grimmjow doesn’t _think_ he said anything suspicious, but he steers Ichigo’s attention away, just in case. “I thought you w’re gonna try 'n kill me earlier. Very sad about that,” he pouts falsely.

"I doubt I would have succeeded.” He might as well be honest; “thought about it when you tried flirting with my sisters." Fear and anger are a close thing in his brain, intrinsically connected. A fear response causes an anger one. Nothing scares him quite as much as the thought of his sisters being hurt. 

Grimmjow’s mood sours some at the mention of Ichigo’s sisters, but he’s had a _lot_ and self deprecating humor comes easier to him when he's hammered, so he snorts and says “-didn’t you know you were meeting the easiest man in all of Las Noches? I’d fuck a horse if Aizen-sama-kun told me to.” And then he downs the shot that Melony places at his elbow and chases it with the cocktail hooha he copied off Ichigo. He coughs on the saccharine taste, too sweet for his altered senses and shoves it towards his drinking buddy. “You have this, it's shit and I hate it. Melony!” 

She rolls her eyes at him from where she’s serving another customer. 

Ichigo can't help it- he laughs when Grimmjow's face twists, it's just such a funny expression, and he doesn't even hesitate to take the remainder of the sweet drink and use it to top up his half empty glass, setting the discarded one a little ways away- he eyes the shot glass warily, though. 

Grimmjow pouts and then pushes the second shot towards Ichigo too, “Sorry my boss sucks, he’s good but he’s the worst, ya know? Like he’s horrible, but he’s good for me you know?” Not even Grimmjow knows at this point, his mouth’s just running because Kurosaki’s isn’t. He should shut up now, he’s much much cooler when he’s quiet and aloof; he’s been told he’d be the perfect man if only he stitched his mouth shut. Or wore a ring gag.

"I do not know." Ichigo hums. He doesn't. The closest to a boss he's had was Urahara, and that wasn't so much having a boss as having a personal trainer who could and would sell your organs if you didn't work hard enough. "And it's not shit. It's just sweet. Not my problem if you prefer gasoline."

Ichigo hums softly as Grimmjow bangs at the table in a drumbeat only vaguely mimicking the music while he waits for his next drink. Discomfort threads through him, and he thinks perhaps Grimmjow revealed a little more than he meant to in amongst those statements, and now he feels much more amenable to the man. If it's true, anyway. It wouldn't even be the first time someone in-genuinely flirted with his sisters to try and get information on the orders of someone higher up the food chain. 

"Maybe don't fuck a horse." He says instead. "If you want someone that's _hung_ like one, that's a different story."

“You hung like one?” Grimmjow asks immediately, habitual. He winks and leans an arm on the counter top. He’s pretty sure he didn’t smell cock on the guy but sometimes he gets it wrong, in which case he’s _definitely_ hung like a horse if the right toy can be made attachable. Grimmjow would not be against fucking or getting fucked in a bathroom stall at this moment. 

Ichigo snorts, shakes his head. Still doesn’t want to lose sight of his surroundings, resolves to only blink with his secondary eyelids until he’s safe in his quarters again.  
  
“God, no. Having to arrange myself every time I want to sit down so I don’t crush something? No. But I can bet that half the people here have attachments like it.” He waves a hand absently, unconcerned. 

Grimmjow isn’t deterred, “but none of them are packing five tons of Beastie in their brain, are they?” _And you are, I see the way you move, I know a predator in amongst the sheep._ “Drink the shot and it's my apology for,” he waves a hand but can’t actually say anything because Melony shoots him a look and he knows that means _Aizen’s listening._ Instead he asks, “you got any cybernetics in there other than the eyes?”

Ichigo stares, pauses with his drink halfway to his mouth. His spine is tense, and for a long moment he doesn’t move, barely breathes.  
  
He drops his gaze for a second, then meets Grimmjow’s eyes again.  
  


The Espada is definitely drunk. Doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous.

“Five and a half,” he murmurs, low, doesn’t look away even as he sips. The sweet liquor coats his taste buds.

“Only the eyes-” he hums, and it isn’t _quite_ lying “-and how many in the crowd are less _human_ than you?” He mouths, barely makes a sound, doesn’t really care if Grimmjow catches it or not. He already knows that presumably, only the other _Espada_ are like him. Predators. Unnatural.

It's not uncommon knowledge that the Espada are something inhuman, in fact Aizen likes to bring it up publically and excessively whenever he knows it will elevate his leverage over a competitor. It’s not often however that someone is disquieted by it. All of the Espada were designed to be either beautiful or unmistakably weaponizable. 

The question still catches Grimmjow by surprise. Melony places another drink by his elbow but he ignores it in favour of wrapping a hand around Ichigo’s lower arm, sliding upwards as he leans in, lashes fluttering for a moment before he settles into a half lidded look that’s impossible to mistake. “Notta single _fucking_ one of ‘em. Except you.”

Ichigo grins, wide, the expression that he knows splits his face open and exposes his teeth like Zangetsu’s maw. Narrows his eyes, leans in a little, tilts his head to the side. Inhuman. _Rend through flesh. I will bite your tongue right out of your mouth and swallow it._

Grimmjow is _beautiful_ and _horrifying_ in his very nature. Ichigo is equal parts scared and _interested._ He knows the not-man could take him apart like wet paper. Grimmjow’s stronger than him, possibly faster, (and Ichigo is _fast_ , pushing the edges of what’s human and what isn’t) and he should be running far, far away. Taking his sisters and leaving.  
  
“I’m not like you,” he murmurs, (his breath fans over the predator's mouth with the paltry distance between their faces) and he _isn’t,_ he wasn’t _made,_ he just _became this_ , “but I guess I’m pretty close.” 

He leans back again, turns his head away but doesn’t push Grimmjow off of him, just finishes off his drink. Contemplates the shot, wonders if he _should_ drink it.

He didn't come here to get drunk - _or_ to get laid, but fuck if it wasn't an effort to look away instead of _lean in_ and catch Grimmjow's lower lip between his teeth. So he grabs the drink and downs it smoothly. It burns all down his throat and lingers behind his sternum, but he's had worse, so he doesn't flinch or make a face, just sets it down and eyes his empty glass. Weighs the pros and cons of ordering another - it _was_ very tasty, and he _does_ have a terrible sweet tooth. He probably asked for the sweetest drink they had, he thinks, but the brief amount of time he lost is still a mystery to him. 

He takes a second to feel along the steel cable that connects him intrinsically to Zangetsu, feels the beast shift in his tank with a rumbling purr at having the link stimulated between them, _we should eat the other predator, bite him, how does he taste?_ Ichigo's thoughts flick to something much less carnivorous and _just as hungry_ , eyes glancing sideways to Grimmjow's throat, teeth pressing together carefully to make sure he holds back any sound he might instinctively make as he lets his mind wander. 

_How does he taste, is his skin sweet, would his length be heavy on my tongue? His hands are so big, would he choke me out if I asked nicely, would he leave finger shaped bruises on my hips and chest when he gropes me? He's taller and broader than me, would he pin me to the wall, the bed, smother and hide me underneath him?_

Zangetsu can be there within seven minutes, he decides, tenuously judging the distance the link is stretched over. 

He just needs to make sure he has seven minutes warning if everything goes to shit. 

Grimmjow leans back a little too, somewhat buoyed by Ichigo’s near receptiveness. Grimmjow may care little for attraction but he does like _attention_ and receiving it from such a dangerous creature adds an incredible element of adrenaline to this little encounter. 

He’s certain that Ichigo will deck him if he puts his nose anywhere near his throat, (his teeth are sharper than natural, hard to see unless you peel back his lips behind his canines. His molars are serrated.) 

Instead he runs the hand on Ichigo's arm back down to his wrist, keeping his grip careful and light so that Ichigo thinks he could pull away if he wanted. He tugs the wrist up and turns it over until the soft and sensitive inside of it is exposed, teases battle calloused fingers over it in short sweeps and then leans forward, watching Ichigo through his dense lashes to scent him. He just barely brushes his lips against the skin in the process. 

It’s not so much an intentionally practiced technique for flirting so much as an instinct that says _this is what you would do if you were Pantera right now._

Grimmjow never found it odd that 50% of his actions are governed by the part of him that is the Beastie. After all he’s not like most Linked, he was _literally born_ already in the connection. He learned to walk on four legs as much as he learned to walk on two. He has had decades of time between his bodies - it's only natural that his brain would adjust in response to that kind of connection. Something tells him Kurosaki appreciates it. 

_Fuck,_ he wants to climb on top of him and get his teeth into that neck, pin him down and fuck him through the godamned floor. Simply because _he wants to_ , the power and pleasure in having such a dangerous creature under him is _exhilarating._ Grimmjow shifts his weight, fingers still playing with Ichigo’s wrist - he desperately wants to sink his teeth into the smooth skin there, feel it break and bleed, but he must wait. 

Ichigo inhales quickly, audibly, synthetic eyes sharpening in on Grimmjow-the lines of his jaw, the way his calloused fingers play over the weak skin protecting important veins in his wrist. 

He doesn't struggle or tense, though a thrill of _danger, danger, predator_ locks around his vertebrae and up to the base of his neck. His fingers flex, slightly, automatic movement. He hasn't been-

It's not that he hasn't been touched. Affection is one of the few things that keeps him grounded. But this is- borderline animalistic, an odd power play he finds _surprisingly_ intimate, and it's sparking things he truly didn't expect. He hasn't been touched _like that_ and it's concerning and intriguing. 

_Fuck it_ , he thinks, smothers down the survival instincts that still press warnings at him, and turns to face Grimmjow entirely, leans in just enough, _open, receptive, accepting, what will you do, other a n i m a l?_ Tilts his head to one side to bare the slope of his neck. Not his jugular--but up the side, and down to where the collar of his shirt slips slightly over tan skin. 

Invitation. Semi-submissive, _willing._ Ichigo wonders how much pressure it would take to break skin on Grimmjow with his teeth. 

He reckons he can make the threshold. _Think you could dominate me? I won’t make it easy._

Grimmjow can feel his eyes dilate when Ichigo leans into him, their knees bumping under the countertop, and then slipping between each other's thighs easily. They fit _perfectly_ . Fuck. Grimmjow mirrors Ichigo, leaning in, sitting up from the drunken slouch that had him bent halfway over the sticky bartop, until he’s finally looking _down_ at Ichigo, at the smooth expanse of his neck, skin pale and unmarked by teeth - _his teeth_ specifically. 

The part of him that he calls Pantera knows it’s a trap somehow. Five and a half tons of dragon doesn’t bare it’s neck without a fight, without _being forced_ into submission. He smirks something equally feral, “fuck, I’m pissed I’m not gonna be in the pit with you now.” His tone carries an underlying rumble, not quite a growl but definitely something throatier than humans speak with. 

Grimmjow wants to bully him around and carve him up and make him nice and red and slick, fuck him sloppy and loose using his own blood as lube. Ichigo’d rage and bite and fight back, Grimmjow’s sure, and it’ll make it all the sweeter when he wins. 

Grimmjow leans into the invitation anyway. His second hand finds Ichigo’s knee and slides up as he ducks in closer, breath fanning over the vulnerable skin. He doesn’t kiss or bite yet, just enjoys the proximity and the scent of Ichigo’s growing arousal. His lips find the shell of Ichigo’s ear, “wanna have a fistfight in the training room and let me fuck you against the wall when I win?”

Ichigo makes a low _inhuman_ little sound, half moan, half _something other_ and smiles to himself, the hand not still caught in Grimmjow's hold moving up and tangling in messy blue hair, tugging gently, amused. _Foolish predator,_ Zangetsu hums, and Ichigo wants to _purr_ with something close to victory, because right now all it would take is a firmer grip and a _twist pull_ to snap that pretty throat open wide and then sink his teeth into it. 

"What do I get if _I_ win?" He murmurs, soft and sweet, voice like honey. 

_Imagines digging his fingers into Grimmjow's hip bones until they crack under his weight, forked tongue and breath that hisses out as steam, maybe he'd start with the arms, work his way along before clamping his jaws around that handsome face and pressing down, it pops like cherries, he swallows the bones, too, spits them back up later to decorate with._

"What would I get to _take from you_ if I make you bleed?" 

Fuck, either way he _wins_ he gets what he _wants_ and he's _thrilled about it,_ because the idea of someone who he doesn't have to hold back with- he can't _accidentally_ kill Grimmjow, there's just _no way,_ he's stronger than Ichigo is. 

Grimmjow _moans_ into the sensation of fingers in his hair, it’s a little excessive but he’s not acting. The part of him that should be self preservation instinct has long since been trained out of him. Aizen doesn’t need soldiers that are more interested in saving themselves than him, especially when he can just grow new ones. Still, Grimmjow is not _prey_ and he won’t be treated as such. 

The hand on Ichigo’s thigh flexes in reminder, cellular reorganization turns nails into claws and he presses over Ichigo’s femoral, stroking up the muscular leg until his weight is balanced over Ichigo. Grimmjow nibbles at Ichigo’s earlobe, biting sharply for half a moment before he pulls back to meet the Link’s unnatural yellow gaze. “Nothin’ fer just a little bit of blood other than the pleasure of bleedin’, and you don’t gotta worry yer pretty little head over what you get if you win cuz it’ll never happen. You an’ I both know you want to be under me just as much as I wanna bend you over.”

He grins sharp and boyish, blue hair flopping over his face when Ichigo’s hand shifts. “Now, you gonna keep starin’ deep inta my eyes or you gonna try fuck me up?” 

Ichigo shivers, just slightly, the smallest tremor under his skin when Grimmjow bites at his ear- the hand on his thigh is _infinitely_ more dangerous but _fuck_ if it doesn't feel _good,_ this mix of adrenaline and fight or flight _arousal_. 

"Well? You gonna lead the way or do you want me to lay you the fuck out for this crowd to watch?" He hums, eyes dipping half lidded, pupils blown wide out of their usual lizard-slits, almost round with excitement.

God he wants that. Wants Grimmjow to just fucking _ruin him;_ break his bones and snap his wrists so he can't push him away, take him til he can't tell the difference between the pain and the pleasure. 

He just wants to _feel_ , be opened up from the inside out. 

And get a good fucking fight out of it too, if that's on the table. All around a solid fucking win. And he can tell Grimmjow won't go _easy_ on him, and he's almost thrilled to _lose._ It's been so long since losing hasn't carried _deathdeathdeath_ and instead promises a _reward._

He releases his loose grip on blue strands and leans back a little, smiling small and sharp, close-lipped. 

Grimmjow presses in closer, “Oh I can lay you out in the middle of the DF if that’s what you want pretty boy, want me to fuck you in front of a live audience?” Grimmjow is joking, he’s a slut for _getting_ caught, not for public fucking, but Ichigo doesn’t know that and Grimmjow wants to try and throw him a bit. 

The hand still playing with Ichigo’s wrist tightens suddenly and then slips free to grab at his hand and pull the boy upright in the same moment he stands himself. He uses the sudden movement as leverage to twist Ichigo all the way around against the counter top and presses up along his back, wrapping him in an almost hug with a hand splayed wide across his stomach. He smirks into the back of Ichigo’s neck and nips at the skin.

Ichigo forces down the instinctual violent response, the flash-quick tightening of the grip on his wrist elicits, and let's himself be spun up and around. He even laughs and ignores the cool splash of Grimmjow’s knocked over drink against his skin. He’s still on the end of the breathless little sound of joy when teeth tap lightly at his skin, teasing, and he - _can't wait to fucking fight this man -_ turns without hesitation when he's released --

Grimmjow stumbles, just a little, he hopes Ichigo didn’t notice. 

He does.

Yellow eyes catch the stutter of movement, odd and slightly uneven, but not particularly _off,_ not anything that makes him concerned. He's not too drunk, is he? Just on the right side of tipsy, but then again, so is Ichigo. Just enough to think this is all a _great_ idea. 

“Come on, Ich-i-go~” Grimmjow bats his lashes teasingly and flashes his teeth threateningly. It’s an odd mix of emotes even for him but he’s going to eat Kurosaki _alive,_ and the kid should know it. He swings an arm widely towards the exit, forcing bodies to tumblr over onto the dancefloor in the process - it’s an effortless and entirely accidental display of power - “the pit awaits!”

Ichigo bares his teeth right back, feral, and steps forward to keep pace with Grimmjow towards the elevators, can't help but run his tongue along the back of his teeth even as he drops his shoulders, curls slightly, sticks his hands in his pockets. It’s an automatic response in order to move through a crowd. _Smaller smaller, let them underestimate us, Ichi-getsu, Zan-go_ rings in his hind brain. 

Where Ichigo gets smaller, tucks himself away and little, Grimmjow burgeons, shoulders and spine straighten out, chin lifting, and stride lengthening into a strut. Blue eyes scream _murder, get out of my way or I will run you down_. 

Pantera is small and easily overlooked. Girly. Here kitty~ kitty~. 

Grimmjow is _not._

Grimmjow is a presence, and he _owns_ the Sixth Sanctum. When he moves, people part around him. He tosses his head to the side, blue hair flips smoothly and he steals a pair of beers out of hands as he walks past, staring down their previous owners when they try to protest. He downs one of them in one go - he shouldn’t drink more before a fight but it’s a habit whenever sex is on the table. It’s a conditioned response to lean into the blackout - he offers the other to Ichigo. 

Ichigo discards the beer sideways as soon as he receives it, it's already open and didn't come directly from the bartender, there's _no_ way he's drinking it. Some poor soul closes their fingers around it automatically when he shoves it into their hands and they don't even see him, as small and unnoticeable he's made himself, and as much of a _presence_ Grimmjow makes next to him. 

He actually - sort of likes it. Some small lizard like mix of him and Zangetsu at the back of his head _purrs, we can circle him and when he is attacked we can intervene from the side, intercept and tear them apart. Two predators. Easy prey. One to posture, one to prowl._

The thought actually catches him sort of off-guard, how _good_ that sounds. What a _team_ they'd make.

The pair of security guards at the back entrance have already called the elevator and Grimmjow sneers at them when they share a knowing look, their eyes glancing between Ichigo and the Espada. Grimmjow doesn’t care about the opinion of sheep. He steps into the elevator and waits for Ichigo before keying in the code to access level 10 where his private training rooms are located. 

Ichigo straightens again only when the elevator doors close and tugs at his collar a little, rocking back and forth from the heel to the ball of his feet, delicately warming up already. 

He's so _excited for this._ In more ways than one. He wants to match himself up against the bigger threat next to him and see how close he can get to his level. If he can claw his way to the top and steal his crown. 

Grimmjow frowns a little lopsided at Ichigo and makes to ask why Ichigo does that, makes himself small, before thinking better of it and cracks his joints instead. 

It’s only a few short moments before the heavy metal door is lifting upwards with a grinding noise and they can disembark. The 10th level of the Sixth Sanctum is largely reserved for the upper echelon, the high rollers and the big dogs who pretend they don’t visit places like Las Noches. Its appearance reflects this, where the floors below are grungy with plates of metal welded and hammered together to make walls and floors and the piping is leaky and exposed, level 10 is brightly lit with a soft neon glow and it's well signed and clean. 

Grimmjow leads them out, heading in the direction of his personal quarters and the training gym nearby. There are few people around at this time of the night, the few they walk past are either stumbling home from a party, hands up skirts and down pants, or are only swinging by to get higher on Angel Dust and Helios before diving back into the debauchery. 

Grimmjow nearly rocks into a wall around one corner but he laughs and points out one of the high rollers down the hallway hidden in a shadow getting his cock choked on by what looks like the world's most nicely dressed prostitute (other then Grimmjow of course, he has very good style) so he can shake the dizziness off without Ichigo seeing. 

Ichigo wrinkles his nose a bit at the public dicksucking, turns his gaze back to Grimmjow and - the inklings of doubt beginning to fill his mind - but he brushes them off, because he's still feeling warm in his chest and extremities, still looking forward to the buzz of the fight he's been promised. 

A few more fumbling steps and Grimmjow is ramming his shoulder hard into the heavy door that leads to the gym area and happens to have the only door that gets stuck on this level. No one else is in the room when they get there and Grimmjow flicks the lever to turn the lights on, pointing over to a pseudo pit, about half a meter deep with sloped sides to climb in and out of it easily. It’s more for wrestling than anything else, with padded mats and walls, but it’ll work for a brawl in a heartbeat. 

“Step in ta my office,” Grimmjow smirks at Ichigo and bends down to take his steel reinforced boots off. 

Ichigo hums in acknowledgement, toes off his shoes quickly and steps barefoot down into the little semi-pit and grabs the hem of his hoodie to pull it up over his head. He tosses it out the side onto the floor. Next he empties the pockets of his jeans and leans over the ring to tuck the items into the pocket of the discarded jumper. He needs to stand on his tiptoes to reach. 

He drops back down and rolls his shoulders, stretches his arms out in front of himself, and decides he's flexible enough for this. 

Ichigo turns around, leaning slightly from side to side, rolling on his heels, swaying, anticipatory. Watching Grimmjow. 

Grimmjow peels off his leather jacket too and tucks his dog tags down his tank top to keep them out of the way. He doesn’t think Kurosaki will make a grab for them but better to tuck them out of reach if he can’t bring himself to remove them. After that it doesn’t take long for his body to heat up, blood pumping faster and muscles tensing and relaxing in waves. He doesn’t need to stretch like Kurosaki, and slides easily down into the pit.

He cracks his neck once and drops into a loose boxing stance. “You want wraps or you like the bare knuckles?” He doesn’t bother asking about rules. 

Ichigo loosens his whole body and spreads his fingers out, arms at his sides, a softer approximation of the way Zangetsu spreads his talons for battle, slides one foot back slightly, a perfect, stable balance. 

"No wraps." He hums, tucks his shoulders down and becomes smaller again, low low low down, knees slightly bent, keeps his gaze firm and closes his secondary eyelids, keeps them that way, clear and uninhibiting. No need for a flinch to make him close his eyes and ruin his chances. 

Patience. _We practice patience, no need to posture._

Grimmjow cocks his head to the side slightly and then lowers his center of gravity to match, movements smoothing out with the preternatural grace he's infamous for. Even off his face he far outpaces most men. _Why does he do that? Big predator made small._

The Espada strikes first, viper fast and not with a fist like most expect but with a brutal, _heavy_ , side kick - it’ll hurt to block - and immediately twists his upper body the opposite way, spineless, to drive an elbow towards Ichigo’s temple. 

No wraps means no hold barred. A concussion isn’t a redaction of consent and something tells Grimmjow that Ichigo likes it rough. 

Ichigo death drops. His spine flattens against the floor and he rolls sideways in one smooth motion, bounces back up onto his feet and jabs at Grimmjow's ribs, a quick shot. More speed less power. 

_He's not made for weight, he's made for steel wrapping around throats but not for impact, designed for slow constriction and outlasting his opponents_ but he knows, already, that he would have been fucking _destroyed_ by that double hit if not for his cybernetic eyes, enhances visual processing, and _his predator brain. Everyone is either a threat or prey, and prey can be a threat too._

His eyes catch a flex in Grimmjow's shoulder and he darts sideways, _used to throwing himself around the ring, can't dig claws into the sides though, can't whip his tail around behind, looks so heavy but it can move so fast,_ grins wide and feral, eyes open obscenely wide with that clear shimmery layer overlapping them. Take in all the information around him to _survive._

Grimmjow shivers when the _predator_ ducks under him and twists with the movement, he doesn’t even notice the lovetap to his ribs under the beer blanket, but he does notice when the room keeps spinning after he stops and he cackles at the horrifying realization that he literally can’t see straight. 

His ears catch the sound a second before he needs to sway out of the way when Ichigo’s quick fists try to sneak through his guard. One must have snuck through because his chest smarts a little and he snarls through his smirk, joy the dominant emotion. Ichigo’s good!

Grimmjow takes two steps back, weight rocking unpredictably for a second before lashing out again, one foot up and he realizes his balance is off and pulls it back in to stabilize himself before he tips over, plays it as a feint and throws a jab for the flighty asshole's jaw. 

Ichigo hisses when he doesn't quite get out of the way in time - it grazes along the edge of his face and he has to twist abruptly to avoid the worst of it, throwing himself a little off balance and having to scramble to recover, toes splayed out on the floor ( _where are his talons?_ ) so he can get more of a grip, more surface, ( _useless little things that don't work in this body at all_ ) drops low again, smaller target, smaller still, circles the bigger man, looking for an opening _a reaction, lash out at me so I can claw down the inside of your arms and legs_. 

He likes the sound of the wicked laugh Grimmjow makes, but he doesn't like how _slow_ he is. Because Zangetsu knows this predator outclasses the human meat. Ichigo should not be having it this easy. 

_He's drunk._

Grimmjow follows him, stance liquid as he usually is and waits back. His reaction time is shot, he knows already. He won’t be able to defend properly if Kurosaki decides to put that speed to good use, but he doesn’t want to over extend himself either. He briefly considers taking the fight to a wrestling match on the floor where his weight will be the deciding factor, but that feels unfair. Better to take a few hits and grapple him into a submission hold. 

“Come on then,” he grins, muscles coiling in preparation. This time when he moves it's to feint to the right, before he drops his weight low, forearm braces agaisnt the floor in counterbalance to his leg which snaps up to catch Kurosaki in the crook of his knee. 

Ichigo leaps over the low aimed blow and Grimmjow grin, abs tensing and reversing his momentum before his foot even touches the ground to snap back in the other direction towards Kurosaki’s ribs.

Ichigo hisses, startled, his eyes didn't catch the signs Grimmjow was going to switch back at all, and then he makes a squeak of pain at the impact--he takes it fully, hard, and definitely feels his ribs creak in warning. He's lucky he's so light, because instead of having to absorb the whole fucking force of that kick he folds around it and lets it carry him backwards a bit, drops and rolls with the push of it, comes up on his hands in a low crouch, knees not touching the ground. 

That'll leave a _nasty_ bruise, came dangerously near to cracking a rib entirely. One hand skims over the skin through his tank top and he huffs, pleased. At least, despite being drunk, Grimmjow isn't skimping on _trying_ to give him a proper challenge. 

He coos, low, and settles perfectly still again. Waiting, waiting. He can see the slight tremors along the _predator_ 's knees, his balance not quite as firm as he's pretending it is.

"Thought you were gonna rough me up good? Haven't even made me bleed yet." He taunts, and his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. "What's wrong? You're not scared are you? _Predators like you_ don't _get_ scared."

_Scaredy cat._

Grimmjow chuckles, low and rough, he’s never heard _that_ one before. “Baiting me Kurosaki? You haven’t even initiated a single exchange yet. Sounds to me like you’re the _scared_ one.” 

But Grimmjow obliges, stepping forward and slipping into a well practiced kata of jabs and crosses and kicks, all of which Kurosaki weaves around effortlessly. Grimmjow finds it both incredibly satisfying and incredibly annoying. Despite his brash attitude, when in the pit he behaves much the same as Kurosaki, quick and agile. Waiting for the perfect opportunity to reach something vital. 

"I prefer to wait." Ichigo says, honest and simple, and then spends the next minute really hoping he doesn't fuck up, that the millisecond difference between visual input and translation in his brain doesn't screw him over. 

But _fuck_ Grimmjow is smooth. Made to fight, fucking beautiful like this. 

Ichigo almost feels bad when he slaps the heel of his palm into his mouth, _just barely misses the nose, fuck,_ after ducking inside the circle of Grimmjow's arms- he's out again just as quickly, and something _primal_ curls low in his gut, _beyond arousal_ when he sees that he's split the man's lip open and there's blood welling from it. There's the slightest smear on his hand, too, and he almost wants to lick it clean, but he drops down small again instead, positively beaming in pride. 

"First blood." He calls, chirpy. 

Grimmjow slides his tongue over the outside of his teeth, licking blood off and swallowing it down. “First blood? No broken ribs for you then, huh.” He hadn’t been sure with the way Ichigo moves if he's just naturally twitchy, fits into his body a little wrong, or if he’d snapped something. 

Ichigo huffs, gives in and licks his palm clear of copper, _rich but already cold, better drink it down right from the source,_ and smiles as he slides up a little, not quite straightening, but not as low to the ground. Perches on the balls of his feet, heels lifted. 

"Close, but no. Not broken. You have a question for me don't you? I noticed it. You've looked at me twice with this odd little glint in your eyes. You can ask it, whatever it is." 

Grimmjow shifts his stance, switching feet in what could be assumed as a cocky display of false ambidextrousness. It's not. Ichigo would be unwise to assume so. 

“We're doing the pillow talk first?” He teases, bouncing on his toes, but takes advantage of the offering of information. 

“Why do you get small like prey?” Grimmjow would hate to do that. 

Ichigo goes to laugh, _pillow talk_ , Grimmjow is just full of snark isn't he- cuts himself off with a sharp look at the other man and makes to answer on autopilot. "We are-" _Stops. Too comfortable. Can't trust him. Not pack._

He sucks on his teeth for a moment, silent. 

" _I_ ," he tries again, that's better, yes, that's correct, "-am used to being prey. I'm not large or imposing like you. I can't menace or intimidate as effectively. You see a _large_ rabid dog, you get away from it. A smaller one, you kick out of the way. I like to sink my teeth into ankles when they don't expect it."

It's such an effort to say _I_ instead of _we_ because _they are-_ He decides he doesn't like the question and darts forwards, drops down onto both his hands, palms flat to the floor by his hip and swings his legs out low in a move meant to topple the bigger man, something that wouldn't look out of place in a dance routine. 

Grimmjow contemplates the answer and almost forgets that he’s in the middle of a fight; his reaction is half a beat slow when Ichigo moves to topple him and he tumbles over the leg, “Hey!”- throws his arms out to catch himself before he eats mat, and he twists and gets himself to his knees to throw himself at Ichigo; grappling at his shirt and leg to drag him down to the floor with him. 

Ichigo _hisses_ and twists in panic- the shirt tears a little with a shriek of fabric ripping, and he swings himself up- is caught by a leg and brought right back down again. Not where he wants to be, vulnerable, Grimmjow is heavier than him. If he gets him in a pin-

He flips himself around onto his back and sits up, brings an elbow down on Grimmjow's arm. 

Grimmjow’s fingers tense and then go lax when Ichigo hits against his ligaments and Ichigo slips free of his hold. He barks a frustrated noise and swings a sloppy punch to try and create some space for him to regain his feet, but his perception must be off because he swings well wide, and he can’t dodge out of the way when Ichigo reacts, though his other hand is still raised near his cheek in defense. 

_I have you now pretty Blue,_ Zangetsu purrs in his head and Ichigo twists fluidly, dances around the wide swing and smothers himself over Grimmjow's spine, presses him down only enough to gets his arm around the man's throat, and then he’s rocking himself back and pulling Grimmjow with him. A hand clamps around his other bicep and squeezes upwards to pin the Espada’s throat in the crook of his elbow, hold him tight and immovable. 

Grimmjow claws at his arm and his skin splits, bleeds, but Ichigo doesn't care. The man is weakening. 

_Drunk_ , he thinks again, derisively. _You owe me a rematch, one where you will make me ruinous and carve me open._

"Give," Ichigo purrs, eyes wild, breath coming short. Fuck, he's so turned on right now; "-what was that about not having to worry about what you'll let me do if I win?" 

Grimmjow does not give. It’s not something he ever learned how to do. ‘ _What’s the point?’_ Aizen tells him. ‘ _If you die I will make you again. If you give up, I may not. ‘_

“Leggoh-“ he wheezes as he rips at Ichigo’s arm, claws forming automatically. When the arm doesn’t budge even after he shreds the muscle, he squeezes his hand between his own throat - _airairair I can’t breathe_ \- to try and get some space - and when _that_ doesn’t work he tries to shove back and grind Ichigo into the ground. 

Another few seconds tick by - more than 40, more than a human can last with a carotid pinch - and Grimmjow falls limp. His eyes roll back, drool slipping from his gaping mouth, until his arms drop, deadweight and he slumps, firmly unconscious and not quite sure how the kid got the drop on him. 

Ichigo releases him immediately and gently pushes him over onto his back. He cautiously straddles him, checks his breathing and his pulse, they both seem to be just fine. His heart is a little fast; but that’s more likely from the recent exertion than an underlying health issue.

He leans back, eyes him up, and contemplates just leaving him like this... but he’s not cruel. Instead Ichigo shifts and lies down next to him to examine the tears in his forearm and listen absently to Grimmjow’s breathing. Maybe he should push the man into the recovery position, just in case?

Ichigo doesn’t get to reach a decision before Grimmjow slams back to wakefulness.

There's about 10 seconds of total confusion while he tries to figure out what the fuck happened and why is he lying down, where’s Kurosaki? Who’s lying next to him?

He rolls up in a rush, arm swinging out to pin whoever’s stupid enough to sleep next to him and then blanks, “Kurosaki?”

Ichigo sees the arm move and brings both of his up in a block just in time. He grunts at the impact across them, momentarily very _grateful_ the man is drunk, because he can easily imagine a blow like that breaking his arms. He should have kept more distance between them.  
  
“Yeah, ‘s me. You good?” He huffs, half teasing, glances to the side at Grimmjow. The cuts along the outside of his arms ooze fresh blood, sluggish, but he doesn’t care much.

“Did… You just _choke me out_ ?” Grimmjow asks incredulously as the pieces fit back together, “You did! You…” The growing pitch of his voice smooths out suddenly, “ _kinky_ bastard.”

Ichigo grins, wide, amusement curling in his gut.  
  
“Yeah. Your own fault for being shit faced. Talked big about how I wouldn’t win, _now_ look where you are.” He snickers, sits up with a sigh and stretches his arms up above his head.

“Thought you were gonna die or something, honestly. Was thinking about turning you sideways if you stayed knocked out much longer.”

Grimmjow feels the heat burn up the back of his neck and his ears, “I am not shitfaced I’m _barely_ …” He pauses, squints a bit and cocks his head to the side. “Wow, my heart is beating _really_ fast. Is that normal? Oh, am I _drunk?_ ” He says, as if noticing for the first time that maybe he was a little more than tipsy. Usually alcohol slows his already stupidly slow heart rate down further. Is he high? Did he take something? He doesn’t think so, but he can’t really recall either. 

He sits down hard on his ass, releasing Kurosaki and scrapes a hand through his hair roughly, a habitual movement whenever he gets agitated. He was… in the bar with his team… He tilts his head back to blink up at the fluorescent bulbs so they can shine some light on his memories. It doesn’t work and just sears a blot onto the back of his photosensitive eyes.

Ichigo stares, baffled for a long moment. “It took you _this long_ to realise? Dude.”

“I don’t get drunk.” Grimmjow replies and returns his gaze to Kurosaki. “Or I do, but I get undrunk real quick too. What do you get if you win, I forgot.”

Ichigo snorts in disbelief. “Well, you never told me what I would get. You seemed very sure there was no chance I would win.”

It wasn’t exactly fair- with how drunk Grimmjow was, and the fact he just _drank some random person’s beer_ , stole it easily enough that he’s probably been doing it all night, it’s quite possible he’d accidentally gotten dosed on something at some point, too. Ichigo doesn’t feel quite as good about the win as he would otherwise; but sober, Grimmjow would undoubtedly wipe the floor with him, so he will take what he can get.

Grimmjow snorts, “cuz I shoulda won. Obviously.” He smirks a little lopsidedly and leans towards Ichigo, “I was just distracted by your pretty face.”

Ichigo laughs, caught off guard, shakes his head. 

“Uh huh. Sure you were, that’s why your balance was so off.” He stands, offering a hand to pull Grimmjow up after him. “C’mon, I’ll walk you back to whatever hall your room is in so you don’t pass out somewhere nasty.”

Grimmjow considers the hand for a second before reaching up and using it to yank Ichigo down on top of him, twisting smoothly to deposit Ichigo on his back and throw a leg over him, straddling him. “What if I want to pass out somewhere with you, hmm?”

Ichigo huffs, eyes flaring wide as he’s pulled down, but he doesn’t struggle; just scowls a little and relaxes back, drags his gaze over Grimmjow’s face.  
  
“Hmm. How comfortable is your bed? Because I’ll consider it, if it’s better than the bed in my room. I’m not passing out in a hall with you, though. I’ll wake up with no clothes or wallet.”

“I was thinking of something a little more athletic than sleeping frist,” Grimmjow beams down at him, leaning forwards to nudge his nose under Ichigo’s chin. Ichigo’s heart is pounding faster than his. “While the heart rate's up.”

He runs his lips over Ichigo’s pulse point and grins when he hears his breathing hitch in response, “Don’t I owe you a _reward?_ ”

Ichigo flushes slightly, cheeks warm- the arousal had lessened, with the quiet, but Grimmjow is still _unfairly_ attractive, and, yeah, he really wants him.  
  
“Maybe.” He hums, tilts his head a little, a thrill of _danger_ at teeth so close to his delicate throat. “What are you offering?” _Still gonna try and take me apart? Make me bleed and scream?_

Grimmjow grins sharp and hungry, Pantera stretching her way under his skin, spine curving and jaw parting, claws popping like knives through cloth as she fills his head, “Offerin’?” he repeats, his voice a mere growl, “‘m more interested in _taking_.” 

He presses a kiss just under Ichigo’s ear before sliding down and nipping at the skin, “the picture of you, spread out,” his hands trail down Ichigo’s arms in a slow, swirling pattern, “held down” until he can wrap long fingers around both wrists and guide Ichigo’s hands above his head, pressing firmly down into the mat, “begging for me.”

He forms words around kisses and only pauses to suck the barest of bruises over Ichigo’s pulse, “I’m gonna fuck you so hard you can never forget the shape of me, I am going to _ruin you._ So you can take your little coy ‘Maybe’ and think about how _maybe_ I’ll remind you what your name is when this is over.” His words turn husky and gravelly in his throat and when he finally leans back to see the effect he has on the fighter beneath him he smirks, demanding and unmovable. His words are an inevitability. 

Ichigo shudders, his spine tensing in fear-panic-arousal and it makes his brain feel liquefied in his skull, overwhelmed. His eyes narrow and then the pupils dilate wide, from slits to circles, reptilian. 

Ichigo curls his fingers when his hands are pinned, but doesn't twist or struggle, just parts his lips on a sigh and tilts his head to the side, a cocky retort already on his lips when Grimmjow decides - “ _Enough talking_.” 

Ichigo makes a startled little sound, at that, didn't quite anticipate how _weak_ he'd be for the roll of Grimmjow's voice, near-inhuman. 

He thinks the man might _actually_ ruin him, if he fucks like Ichigo thinks he will. Too much. Overwhelming. He bares his teeth in a grin, rolls his spine a little bit, lifting his hips in the cage of Grimmjow's thighs where he's straddled him. A challenge. 

The door is locked. No one comes to find them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a birthday present for myself (I bullied Moth into posting early), so please leave a comment for us to feel loved and validated!
> 
> Come talk to Moth and I in the GrimmIchi server! https://discord.gg/FBp6KJ 
> 
> Or finds us on Tumblr at queen-plouton and mothwoodgoblin 💖💖


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Check the tags.

Grimmjow hoped to enter the meeting room quietly and discreetly in the few minutes before Aizen called his monsters to order, and thereby planned on avoiding any and all conversation with his brothers and sisters. 

Of course, even the best laid plans - and this doesn’t even scale as a .5 out of 10 on his plan’o’meter (let alone Szayel’s) - go to shit. The _second_ Nnoitra spots him slip through the door, it’s all over for him.

Thump. Thump. **THUMP.**

Thump. Thump. **THUMP.**

“Ja ger **jaquez**!” 

“Ja ger **JAQUEZ**!” He chants Grimmjow’s name as he stamps his feet, big blunt teeth bared as Grimmjow tries and fails to storm nonchalantly to his designated seat, and freezes rather obviously like a deer in headlights. 

It’s to Nnoitra’s _excruciating_ delight that several of the others join in. _Starrk, you fucking traitor_! Even Ulquiorra is tapping along with that dead, vacant look in his bug-gut green eyes.

Grimmjow gathers his wits and snarls wordlessly as he stalks past, unwilling to grant the Quinto the attention he desires until Aizen forces him to. 

It’s not enough to shut Nnoitra up though, never is. “Never before has a Beastie been fucked on camera y’know. Did ya _like it_? Oh, I bet a little whore like _you_ loved having Trepadora’s slimy little tentacles squirm all around in your guts. I saw the footage, can’t believe that bitch Luppi got one out your nose! HA! HA HA!”

Grimmjow’s blood runs cold and his vision runs white, he warps the heavy metal table between his fingers. He had thought for a second that it was about -- 

He hurls himself across the table in the next breath and gets one, two, swings himself around the chair like an acrobat on a pole when Nnoitra makes a grab for him, and he rams his knee home for three hits. He feels the crunch of the other's cheekbone and nose under the series of blows, rears back to deliver another before his instincts **_RING_ ** and he’s flipping backwards over Aaroniero, who had tried to pull his foot out from under him. 

The growl that tears itself from his throat is savage, hands turning to claws, teeth sharpening in his gums, pupils blown wide to catch more light.

“Grimmjow,” Aizen interrupts with the saccharine alcoholic voice of his that always makes Grimmjow want to do what he says, which right now is apparently to _sit down_ and _be quiet_. It soothes every nerve Grimmjow has and he finds himself mindlessly obeying before he can think harder on it. 

He slips off the table when the others mimic him, calm and docile. Temporarily. He spins his chair - the one on Aizen’s right, where he _belongs_ \- around to straddle it. It’s both a parody of defense, the stiff metal backing protecting his stomach, and a sign of calm, calculated disrespect. He never pushes the boundaries more than Aizen would allow, he knows where they rest too well by now. He folds his arms over the back of it, resting his chin on them but his claws are still black and vicious until Aizen looks at him again.

Nnoitra cusses under his breath, muffled and furious, but Aaroniero is also taking a seat, and with a long hiss, the obscenely tall man reluctantly lowers himself back into his designated spot. They are all aware that Aizen's patience is finite. The back of Grimmjow's neck prickles at the threat of the other Espada, so close, even as the man tends to his heavily bleeding nose. He'll be in pain through the entire meeting, no doubt, but it's likely his enhanced healing will take care of the worst of it. 

A pity. A crooked nose and shattered cheekbone might improve the cunt's looks. 

"Now now," Aizen purrs, and lifts his tablet from the table to rest it on his knee instead. When he turns it on, the screen flares, then connects to the display in the centre of the table. The box-like hologram stutters to life, displaying a familiar sight on all it's faces. Everyone at the table can see it clearly. 

Grimmjow digs his nails into his palm, his clenched fist the only contradiction to the bored, placid affectation of his expression and posture, as he sees Kurosaki frozen, low to the ground and small, ready to fight. His 'private' sparring ring is only _so_ private.

"Grimmjow has done _exceptionally_ well on more than just one assignment in the past week." Aizen says, sounding amused. Elegant fingers press at the tablet, and the video starts up. The audio is lacking. "To so _quickly_ acquire information on the new team in our midst… Why, I'm downright impressed, Grimmjow."

Grimmjow can’t meet his gaze. Doesn’t want the man to see the warmth in his cheeks. His praise, as sardonic as it is, always makes Grimmjow’s heart stutter in his chest. Some horrific, ingrained response Grimmjow will never be able to shake. He’ll always just… _preen_ under that callous praise.

Grimmjow stares across the table instead. Starrk is one of the younger additions to the team, but he’s more dangerous than Grimmjow could ever hope to be. 

The brunette visibly sharpens, his attention narrowing in on the way Ichigo and Grimmjow move around the ring. His lazy demeanour usually hides his quick mind, but he betrays his programming when blood is drawn. As fixated by the violence as the rest of them.

The soldiers watch the hologram mostly in silence, equally subdued by Aizen’s presence as Grimmjow himself. There’s a muttered comment here and there, but nothing else. 

Grimmjow braces for the cackles when the fight inevitably ends in his defeat, gaze drawn up to the desaturated image of the pair whirling around each other in the pit. It’s obvious that he’s drunk as hell. His footwork is sloppy. Fists swing wide.

He still should have won. Ichigo is, despite the unnatural strength of his link, only human. Grimmjow was _made_ for the fight. No excuse will be good enough for Aizen. He tries to talk his way out of punishment anyway. 

“He’s like us.” He informs, when the holographic Ichigo makes a decidedly inhuman twist. “Beast in his head, like the links always open. Splits his attention sometimes, probably can’t handle a fight on both fronts. He fights like the beast when he’s in his human body.”

Aizen’s attention drifts towards him as he speaks, and he realizes that the warlord has already seen his disgraceful defeat and committed it to memory.

He scrambles for anything else and remembers the vitals he read in the reflection of the biotechs glasses. “BP was one-”

“I’ve already collected all that data, Jaegerjaquez,” Szayel interrupts, bowing his head at Aizen before he takes over the hologram to project Kurosaki’s status. 

Nnoitra snorts, wide flat teeth flashing in sadistic glee. 

Grimmjow doesn’t squirm but he does want to kick himself - of course Szayel already has that information. Grimmjow fucked his probe into the Link himself. Memorization of such facts is redundant. Kurosaki _really_ , shouldn’t have trusted him so easily. Not when letting down your guard for even a second can mean relinquishing your right to… well. Everything. 

Szayel’s data is extensive. Vitals, the kids last meal, his movements through Las Noches, when he last came. Huh, Grimmjow didn’t know Szayel could use that information. 

“He trusts you, yes?” Aizen draws Grimmjow’s attention again, as though pulled by gravity. 

“No.” He’d be stupid to; any good predator would never trust so easily. But. He considers the question more carefully. He’ll come back as long as Grimmjow keeps playing with him. He felt _understood._ Less _alone_ in the universe. Pity that Grimmjow couldn’t give a shit about him. Just another conquest. A scratch in a bedpost made more of scratches than alloy. 

“He’ll keep coming back though. What do you need Aizen-sama?” 

“Information on his mentor. Urahara Kisuke is his name, he’d be the man who created such a near mimic to you, my dear Espada.”

That order draws Grimmjow’s spine straight and dries his mouth. There _aren’t_ others like them. Kurosaki is similar, yes, but not the same. 

“Ulquiorra, you will be in the ring with him - negotiations are finalized - keep the beast repairable. Szayel, Jaegerjaquez will assist in any reconnaissance you need. Jaegerjaquez,” Aizen runs through orders in the strict, no nonsense kind of way that implies he already knows exactly how this plan will play out. The margin of error is zero, on threat of regrowth. 

Grimmjow braces himself for this _next_ humiliating task. 

“You have done exceptionally well this week. First with your successful return of our stolen goods, courtesy of Antenor, and now with your data extraction on Kurosaki.”

Grimmjow stalls, blinks, “I- thank you, sir?” Aizen delivers praise so rarely, he doesn’t know what to say. His chest feels warm, tight. 

Aizen’s smile is small but pleased. Grimmjow’s own face is comparatively impassive - as he was trained to be - but his ears feel hot.

The moment is ruined by a sudden metallic CLANG from behind him as the hydraulic door opens to admit the only Espada not present at the table.

Grimmjow hadn’t even noticed with all the noise Nnoitra made at the beginning. 

Harribel’s movements are graceful and fluid. Predatory. Even with her entire right arm missing, blood still freshly stained into the iconic white jacket that designates her as a commander in Aizen’s mob. None of them are concerned by the grizzly wound, she’ll grow it back in not too long. 

Her face is impassive, calm and composes as always. She bows, “Aizen-sama, I apologise for the interruption.”

Grimmjow never likes seeing her in the soft white-yellow fluorescence of the meeting room. Without the harsh blacklight revealing the jagged lightning tattoos on her cheeks and the ravenous teeth across her mouth, she looks soft. Like one of the high-class models that sell wealthy people clothes. Gowns and gold. 

Harribel’s hair is a softly lit halo.

She doesn’t catch his eye while she claims her seat, nor does she initiate a debrief. Whatever mission she’s returning from, he’s too low on the totem pole to hear it. One arm down though. She’ll be out of the pit for a while.

Aizen doesn’t prompt her either, returning to the topic at hand as if he’d never been interrupted in the first place. “Jaegerjaquez. You will be leading the assault to clean up the rest of the mess. Antenor is seeking shelter under Mayuri Kurotsuchi’s protection at a facility in Yashiri. Your strike force is authorised. Eliminate the target.”

Grimmjow smiles, more a baring of teeth than anything remotely friendly- the order he’s been waiting to receive all night has finally been delivered. “With _pleasure,_ sir.”  
  


* * *

Pantera stalks quietly through the halls, catlike eyes wide and unblinking. Paws the size of ornamental plates are completely silent, and her twin tails barely stir a breeze in the air as they sway. 

She’s fresh for the fight - recently repaired and updated. The newest model in a long string of Pantera line bioweapons.

Her team is behind her on louder feet. Boots ghosting over the grating and kevlar armor clanking quietly. She can hear _everything._ Their breaths - calm, well trained, unstressed (so far) - their heartbeats, level, only three of them, Nakeem and Shawlong remain in the vehicle on standby. 

This mission doesn’t require seven whole bodies. Not when Pantera is hunting.

They sweep silently through the tunnels. Prey is dropped before they can even scream, before they know she’s there. Even if they did know, her tails move faster than bullets, she can break the sound barrier. Her hide is harder than concrete, an impenetrable wall to protect her opposable thumbs, her soldiers. 

Luppi has no time to crawl his way into the Link. He’s _slow._ Not like Pantera. Not like Grimmjow. 

He tries anyway. 

Runs _screaming_ for the tank and Pantera takes great delight in skewering him through the abdomen. She hadn’t been _permitted_ to defeat him so soundly in the pit. No. No that's not good for the money. Not good for the odds. In public she is small _,_ graceful _, feminine_ Pantera. Her link is tall and broad and girthy. They are **pretty**. 

The prey always seems to forget that they are also **LETHAL.**

Hunters. Bloodied and practiced. Unfailing. 

She doesn’t kill Luppi quickly, not after what he did to her, to him, to them. She takes her time in slowly extracting the full length of his digestive tract first, pinning him down under one massive paw, her tails debilitating any guards that attempt to get near any of them while her pack go about emptying the harddrives of any information Aizen-sama requested. 

Contacts, genomes, locations, bio-designs. The computers are loaded with goodies, pieces of gold that will mean she will be well rewarded for her hunt tonight. 

She almost wishes it was more thrilling - that she would get to sink her claws into Trepadora for _real._ She would destroy him so thoroughly there would not be _pieces_ for them to reconstruct him with. This is the difference in class between them. He is a _pit fighter._ She is a multi-billion dollar military grade _weapon._

She puffs hot, rancid air over the man's face and he sobs and drools in the throes of death. He smells like piss and shit, and she wishes she had her human body with her to help shovel it back into his mouth. But she doesn’t, so she starts cutting his legs off instead. 

Her pack are patient. They wait for her to finish - there is no threat any longer - the guards are either dead or hiding. Miserable and scared. Kurostuchi can’t have forces here in anything less than an hour. And Urahara wouldn’t dare organise a strike himself while Aizen holds his prodigy in limbo at Las Noches. 

She eats him after he finally succumbs. Not the filthy bits - disgusting - she has _class,_ and he smacks his lips, strains against his bindings, teeth gnashing at the air. Shawlong shoves a rubber belt between them. 

It’s only when she’s finished with her revenge that she turns to the tank the pack are disconnecting from the stasis chamber. She’d _like_ to keep going. Fight more. Fight _harder._ Almost wishes that Luppi had the time to Link up to Trepadora and give her a proper rematch - but Trepadora is an asset, and Alpha would not be pleased if she damaged it. Her fleshy body would be the one that’s disciplined. She moves again, mindful now of the rage and aggression still present in her massive body. She does not wish to crush her little packlings. At a sharp whistle, she braces a heavy shoulder against the tank container. 

Five minutes later the mission is at a close. Efficient. Always quick and efficient. It’s how all their operations run: in, kill, out. Finished in less than 20 minutes, no matter the scale, no matter the violence.

Pantera chuffs, pleased, as Trepadora is loaded up, and circles the truck once, sniffs at the driver side windows and rumbles when Yylfordt reaches out an arm to pat her nose. Not even his entire hand can cover the moist, leathery surface of it. Then she circles back and watches amusedly as Edrad tries to coax her back into her pod.

An ear flicks and her attention drifts away from the little man. 

She can’t see her body from here, he’ll be kept in a different vehicle further away, security precautions, but she can sense him. She could find him if given enough time. Of course, she won’t be. 

“Inside, _please._ ” Edrad directs her attention back to her tank and she and her body snarl simultaneously. Frustration bubbling up abruptly. The part of her that’s learned to be human pulls at his bindings, but they have both lived this experience many times before, and so she obliges with regal dignity, much to Edrad’s obvious relief. 

Thirty seconds later the truck loading door slides shut and the vehicle is in motion, Nakeem in the back to keep her company while they re-establish the link.

The fluid fills in the tank slowly, she’ll be long out of her body and back unto the meatsuit before she needs to breath it in. 

* * *

Grimmjow is feeling **_good_ **after his mission. Rips himself straight from his bonds and spends only the bare minimum time recalibrating in the pod before he’s busting free to hit the club. 

It’s a working night - always is after a victory - Aizen knows it gets his blood pumping enough to perform but he doesn’t even care. 

Nothing will be better than the euphoria of devouring Luppi but a good fuck where he gets to throw around and bully his partner is definitely a close second today. 

He doesn’t even ask for drugs! Doesn’t need the stardust to bring him up, but Yylford presses a celebratory one between his lips anyway with teeth and tongue. 

He gets through one client quickly (some almost handsome man who runs a minor drug cartel that Aizen’s been trying to get a bug on for weeks). He let’s Grimmjow choke him and fuck his face and it’s not quite hitting the spot (he taps out before he’s even all the way unconscious, the fucking pussy), leaves him hungry for more, but it’s good enough not to kill his vibe. He doesn’t even need to spend more than an hour with the guy before he’s getting his number and excuses his way back to the DF.

He runs into The Kurosaki Link entirely by accident, but the moment he lays eyes on him he knows he’s the one for the night. The only one who could withstand the violence Grimmjow _craves_ in the strobe lights. 

Kurosaki, for his part, bristles as soon as blue orbs zero in on him, discomfort spreading like an itch across the nape of his neck. He curls his fingers tighter around his drink, then abandons it at the bar, fingers cold and slightly damp with condensation from the glass. 

He slips into the crowd, small and unassuming, teeth playing along the inside of his lower lip, pinching at the weak skin. 

Grimmjow stalks after him immediately, his teeth bared in a too sharp smile and UV tattoos contouring his high cheekbones and straight jawline into something savage and carnivorous. 

He’s drunk enough to assume everyone here is his friend and high enough that he decks someone in the nose anyway when they get between him and his prey. 

“Oiiiiii Zangetsu! Don’t run away little lizard! Come dance with me!”

Ichigo glances over his shoulder, one eyebrow raising sharply as he witnesses steel knuckles glance across some poor sod's face, probably crushing his orbital socket and cheekbone in one fell swoop, with the way the hapless victim shrieks, mostly drowned out by the thumping music. Grimmjow's voice carries farther, more distinctly, knife sharp and some form of inebriated. 

Ichigo meets the ( _not a man, not at all human)_ other's eyes with an even, emotionless state, then cracks a slow grin.

When someone passes in front of him in the heaving crowd he shadows them, flawless mimicry hidden by their larger stature. He doesn't think the trick will work terribly well on _Grimmjow,_ but it gets him some distance, and people warp their gaze around him, which allows him to sway with the throng of drunk people, avoiding sharp elbows and grabbing hands as he moves further into the thick of the dance floor. Sweat and the smell of alcohol and sick picks at his nose, but he ignores it well enough that it doesn't distract him from losing the other Link. 

Grimmjow copies him, drifting into the grinding and gyrating bodies with practiced ease, his slit pupils blown wide (or wider than they already were) to search for the flash of orange hair and red tattoos in the crowd.

“Heeeeeere, Ichi, Ichi Ichiiiii~” his voice doesn’t carry over the music but the Ichigo’s scent certainly does. He doesn’t smell scared. He shouldn’t be, he _won_ their last little bout. 

Is he _ghosting him?_ Was his dick not good enough? What the fuck?! _Everyone_ comes back for seconds with Grimmjow. They basically can’t fucking help it. Grimmjow doesn’t _think_ his cum’s addictive or anything but like, only Aizen would know. Either way, Grimmjow isn’t the kind of person who can be avoided. 

It does however take him another few minutes to catch sight of the ginger escaping the Sixth Sanctum and into the grand hallway to run either into either an adjacent club or one of the many brothels, restaurants, and other entertainment centers located on this floor. Or worse. One of the many elevators. 

Ichigo honestly isn't expecting genuine success out of his little escape plan; at most a drawn out game of cat and mouse, perhaps long enough he can err on the side of caution and, when caught, wriggle out of whatever the other Link wants from him and head back to his quarters. As _tempting_ as it is to simply stop, see what Grimmjow wants, (as _tempting as it is_ to _click-click_ over his musculature, splay him out in the sparring ring and peel his skin up, up, test the tensile strength of those bones-) he bites his tongue, and walks quickly down the bustling hallway. 

There's another club, at the end of it, not quite as busy as the heaving mess of the sanctum; slightly cleaner, more sedate. Ichigo knows if he cuts through it there's another elevator, for public use, not private, that he can reach one of the stairwells with. Up two floors, exit, round the stairwell, up one more using that, then cut across that floor and head down again to his quarters. Lead Grimmjow around a bit more; or annoy him enough to give up the chase. 

_He doesn't want to._ Zangetsu thrums and rumbles behind his eyes, and Ichigo wonders if Grimmjow would choke him hard enough he'd bruise beyond purple and go straight to black. 

Even so, he edges around the room instead of b-lining straight for the elevator. Ichigo isn't usually in the business of wasting time; especially when so few people notice him as it is, but he errs on the side of ( _procrastination_ ) caution. 

Grimmjow rips into the club after him with a delighted cackle and launches himself bodily over the bannister into the pit that separates the dance floor from the rest of the seating and standing space with none of the subtlety his prey possesses. It’s another quick leap up and over the railing onto Ichigo’s level and then he’s on top of him. 

“Don’t run! Come _fight_ me!” The way the word fight rolls off his tongue most certainty implies he’s thinking of something else. He slams up against the wall and the other man with it, trapping Ichigo between two strong biceps and practically crushes him up the wall. “Where ya _goin’~_ Ku-ro-saki? Don’t you want a round two?” 

Perhaps, Ichigo thinks, he misjudged the enthusiasm levels Grimmjow could reach. He wrinkles his nose, tilting his head back to avoid having his nose shoved into a broad chest and unfortunately meeting the wall too soon to allow him to stare the taller directly in the eye without curving his gaze up, looking through his lashes at him. Unfortunate, because it gives him a teasing, _flirtatious_ cast, even as he clicks his tongue in annoyance. 

"Your tits are crushing me." Grimmjow is _very close,_ and Ichigo wriggles a little, tries to stand on his tiptoes, but he's so firmly pressed against the plaster by the other Link that he can't actually move at all. 

He'd managed to get his hands up, sure, but now they were stuck, pressed flat between Grimmjow's abdomen and Ichigo's, and even curling his fingers to dig his nails into smooth skin through the cloth is too difficult. Not for the first time, he curses his reluctance to allow Kisuke to change him _more_ than he already did. 

Zangetsu flickers between _annoyance amusement protective rage_ and Ichigo compartmentalises rapidly, waiting for his chance to squirm free and make a break for it. 

Grimmjow grins down at him, thrilled at his _second_ successful hunt of the day. Honestly, it's so much better that Ichigo ran. He kinda wants to fuck him right here caught against the wall to celebrate. It’s all the more delicious for having earned it. 

“You liked m’ tits last time.” Grimmjow purrs, his whole chest rumbling with the motion, and he stoops down with the intent of nipping at the Link’s nose before deciding against it for the time being and aborting the motion. “Left some nice marks fer me too.”

He’s just on the right side of perfect. The drugs always keep him a little softer, so he doesn’t bash up the girls they steer him towards more than they want. They keep him happy and agreeable which is _fine_ if he didn’t just ditch his handlers in the crowd while he was following Kurosaki. 

The bartenders here will alert them before they can pull his plug. So it’s fine.

“Yer not gonna leave me all alone now are ya? I don’t _wanna…_ ” his voice swoops like he's sharing a secret, or nervous he’ll be overheard, wide eyes skittering to the side to eye up the bodies around them, _“_ work t’night. Lemme spend it with you.” He presses a nose to the Link’s temple, nudging him, before leaning back to give him more space, forearms now bracketing him with palms to the gritty wall so that he can fix him with luminous liquid eyes. 

Ichigo makes a disbelieving little noise, gaze flicking to the left, hovering over Grimmjow's shoulder, brief and searching the crowd, before he sighs, visibly coming to some conclusion out of Grimmjow's words. 

"Alright," he starts, slow and reassuring, looks the other Link in the eyes again, and reaches up, one hand staying pressed flat against Grimmjow's stomach as the other wraps gently around one steel wrist, tugging. When the taller man concedes, Ichigo guides it down to press over his hip, and pats his knuckles. It's almost odd, how uncalloused, unmarred the taller's hands are, with the way he punches. But his skin is smooth. 

Grimmjow is _not human._ But Ichigo has had empathy beaten into him over the years he's been alive. 

"What do you want, then? Don't tell me you actually want me to toss you around the ring again. Didn't you learn your lesson on fighting drunk?" 

“M’ not drunk this time though. High. ‘N I _liked_ fightin’ you. It’s fun. I don’t get t’have a lotta fun.” He flexes his hand against Ichigo’s hip, presses a bit closer again at the seemingly granted permission. 

“Here,” He casts weary eyes around the room again, crowding back against the wall and pushing Ichigo higher in the process. His hand drops from hip to thigh, hitching it up and around his waist. He holds it there. Forehead to forehead. “Hate this club. Bartender’s always watching. Too few bodies to obscure the line of sight.”

Ichigo hums, allowing the slight manhandling without complaint, eyes darting across the room again, quiet and careful. "I wasn't exactly planning on staying in here. I was on my way to the elevator," He inclines his head slightly, away from the press of Grimmjow's forehead, but quickly returns the nudge, gentle pressure. 

The other didn't seem to be lying; Ichigo couldn't taste alcohol on his breath, but drugs were just as inhibiting as alcohol when it came to clear thinking, although not reaction times, depending on the substance. 

Ichigo carefully shifts, locks his arms around broad shoulders, further hiding their faces from view and hopefully making it harder for anyone to read their lips, if they were so inclined. "Where would you suggest going instead, then? Is there someone you need to be avoiding?" 

Grimmjow groans at the steady pressure across his shoulders. Maybe he’s laying it on a little thick, but it feels nice. 

“Anywhere there’s- he’s watching you, you know.” The slip of information is calculated, encourages trust. He can be loud and brash later, now he’s _cultivating_ his livelihood. His usefulness. “Not-not in the room I don’t think. There _are_ still. Privacy laws and-” he stutters again. “You should check anyway. I don’t do security.” They won’t find any, probably. But if they _do_ it doesn’t matter, because the one inside of Ichigo is the only important one. “Gotta go where there’s no people.”

He leans into the embrace, as if gathering strength, or bracing himself. Let’s Ichigo see his face. Lets him watch as he pulls back and the haughty, powerful veneer of The Sexta falls into place. 

“Follow me, doll.” The wink and the shark toothed grin isn’t out of place at all for a man about to make a conquest. “I know a place.”

Ichigo hums, eyes narrowing slightly as he settles himself, leg dropping back down when Grimmjow releases him and steps back. He doesn't hold on to the other, putting his hands into the pockets of his hoodie instead, and takes in the expression of Grimmjow's face. 

Ichigo is not stupid. This is not the first time someone has intentionally tugged at his heartstrings, warped their own situation to pluck and pull the fragile threads that keep him human and soft and gentle despite the rolling scales and claws at the back of his head. _Three and a half tons of beastie._

Even so; there is no loss in this. Not really- Grimmjow is interesting even when he doesn't fake weakness, doesn't allow carefully selected, allowable emotions to show. 

"Sure," he says, and falls half a step behind the blue-haired _predator-prey_ when he starts moving, angling himself down and small again. _We practice patience._ Nothing off about this, really. If he is, in some way, helping Grimmjow, so be it. If this is nothing more than Grimmjow attempting to manipulate him into a fight or a fuck, well. He's been manipulated into far worse things; and done even more of his own free will. 

Their pace isn’t slow, but it does have a certain nonchalance infused into it. Confidence, broad shoulders and an aura of _don’t fuck with me_ are all Grimmjow needs to part the few meandering members of the crowd. It’s calm at least until Grimmjow ‘notices’ one of the bartenders - Tesla - step out from behind the bar and move to intercept them at the elevator.

Grimmjow wasn’t quite honest when he said he doesn’t like the bartender. He’s way more concerned with the Espada that _that_ bartender handles. He can’t spot Nnoitra in the room with them and that sets his teeth on edge. Ichigo doesn’t need all that context though. 

His hand jumps to Ichigo as if on instinct and a quiet “ _shit_ ” passes his lips, but his face doesn’t otherwise change except for a small twitch of his mouth. He diverts them as casually as possible down the stairs and onto the DF instead and pulls Ichigo up to his side. 

“Fucking _look_ like yer gonna fuck me at least.” He snaps, unconcerned that it might turn Ichigo off ‘helping him’. He was _very_ into the snarling and snarking from their last romp. And. It isn’t ingenuine. They had fun, Ichigo is the _most fun_ he’s had in a long time. He does want to have a second round. “I _know_ you fucking loved it.”

The angel dust blurs him at the edges again, washes the harsh out, but the high is wearing off any with none of his handlers in sight, he’ll be sober again in the next hour. Szayel’s stuff is good, but Grimmjow’s tolerance is high. 

He blinks his too swollen pupils at Ichigo and leans in close again, toothy smirk in place. “Yer pretty. Don’tcha think I am too?” 

"Maybe I'm too busy thinking about peeling you apart, instead," Ichigo offers, slow and pitched just slightly, a little airy, "-maybe I want to get you on your back and chew through your jugular instead of ride your cock."

He's not lying, not quite. He'd _love_ to. Zangetsu _purrs_ in his bones, twists over himself in his tank, tail tap-tap-tapping against the glass and Ichigo toes the line of bloodlust and _regular_ lust. 

"You'd look pretty even with your eyes between my teeth," he offers, and grins, said teeth bared. Arousal curls up his spine, easily ignored, but a reminder of _caution._ Grimmjow already has too much of an effect on him; Uryuu had made him well aware of this fact, when he'd chewed him out after Ichigo returned to their quarters. 

"You didn't think I'd let you have it _easy,_ did you? No fun like that. I'm not a soft little thing you can bully into a bathroom stall." 

His fingers grip and pinch at Grimmjow's wrist as he says it, the motion obscured between them, kept far from the prying eyes of the bartender Grimmjow seemed so uncomfortable around, a small reassurance. _Only teasing._

Grimmjow sinks into the familiar banter effortlessly. He _loves this._ This is the part where he feels _alive._ Pantera bleeds through the drugged haze. “Yeah?” He rumbles, and licks a stripe along Ichigo’s jawline: _tasting._ “I’ll tell you a secret.”

His lips end at Ichigo’s earlobe. “I’d let ya try do _both._ If you can beat me. I already know how good you taste, but your hot insides?” he shivers, “none of these sheep get it.” The sheep being the drunk party goers milling around.

Grimmjow spins them, sort of like they’re dancing, grinds up on Ichigo and catches Tesla’s gaze over the ginger’s shoulder, where his open mouth is planted. He gasps into Ichigo’s ear. He’s not faking this either, the hotter Ichigo gets, the hotter he does too. “You never got in a stall with me. Maybe you’d like me there too.”

Ichigo laughs, soft and secretive, allows Grimmjow to move him around like he _is_ one of those soft little things Grimmjow is probably used to dealing with; pliant and gentle, _helpless._ They both know it's a lie, but it's a good one, carefully crafted and believable in most ways. 

He sinks his fingers into blue hair when he gets the chance, tugs gently and then smooths it back, away from Grimmjow's forehead. "Small spaces aren't my favourite." 

He says it like an admission of secrecy, something he'd rather keep close to the chest. It isn't. He has no trouble with small spaces. "Would rather be hunted down only to turn the jaws of the trap on you, instead." 

One hand trails down Grimmjow's spine, resting eventually in the divot of his lower back, and Ichigo wonders if Zangetsu would spit up his vertebrae for Ichigo to clean and keep like trophies. 

“I don’t either.” And that’s also true. Grimmjow’s spent too long in small cages and cases and tubes and bathroom stalls to be fond of them. “But you’ve already seen how flexible I can be. C’mon.” His voice takes on a slightly more serious note, dropping the purr even as he grinds up into Ichigo again, rolling his feline spine under long fingers, “you were jokin’ ‘bout the bathroom but the one here connects to the casino next door. Tesla won’t follow… Probably.”

He pulls Ichigo by the wrists, in the opposite direction of Tesla completely and pointedly doesn’t look over his shoulder as he tugs Ichigo along towards the men’s room. He waits until they make it to the door before shoving Ichigo back into the wall for the third time tonight. He claims his mouth immediately, fangs biting at plump lips and long tongue coaxing it's way between carnivorous teeth. His hands _bruise_ when they grab at narrow hips - he relaxes his hold just as quickly, but doesn’t let it look like an admittance of weakness. Instead he slides his grip up to pet over rips and pinch at the muscle on his side. 

Ichigo bites down; not terribly hard, just enough to suction sharp teeth into the surface of Grimmjow's tongue, and he can feel the skin on his lower lip split apart and bleed under the other's affections. He grabs at Grimmjow's hands when they wander upwards, away from the light bruising they've left behind on his hips, and he tightens his grip on them, pressuring him to hold _tighter._

Not enough pain, yet. Ichigo revels in the imagery of Grimmjow wrapping his hands all the way around Ichigo's ribcage, _silly, he's not big enough for that,_ pressing and pushing until _snap snap snap_ they go in like broken piano keys, sticking into the soft meat hidden under the protective curl of them-

He imagines sliding his fingers under Grimmjow's skin, over his stomach, petting blood-flushed muscle directly, digging claws in and tugging at each strand in his abdomen. 

He releases his grip on Grimmjow's tongue, turns his face to the side and breaks the kiss, if it can be called that. "Where to now?" He asks, breathy. 

Grimmjow smirks and rolls them through the swing door this time. His foot keeps it from swinging open again and eyes off the nearest empty stall with a cheeky grin - “sure you can’t be convinced?”

Ichigo barks out a laugh, genuine and uninhibited, then shakes his head. "Absolutely not." 

Grimmjow shrugs, “Your loss~” and finds Ichigo’s hand with his own to guide him across the tiled floor and out the other door into the adjacent establishment. “Was thinkin’ the gym again. Matted floors. You really don’t wanna fight? Guess we got my room then.”

Ichigo blinks a little, eyes finding a spot on the back of Grimmjow's head and narrowing in mild confusion. _His room._ Ichigo can't imagine inviting the other back to _his_ quarters, regardless of the fact his little family shared the same common space. 

For some reason, the idea that Grimmjow didn't see his room as a space apart from people he didn't trust, safe and preserved, ( _because no way in hell did he trust Ichigo_ ) makes him _sad._ A soft, commiserating sort of sadness. He stifles it, quickly, before he can do something stupid like squeeze Grimmjow's hand affectionately.

"Either sounds fine to me." He hums, non-committal. 

“Door locks at mine.” Grimmjow’s eyes catch Nakeem’s as they exist the bathroom and enter the casino. He’s sitting at a slot machine, see’s Kurosaki training him, and doesn’t move to block them. 

Grimmjow is back on the radar. 

There is still work to be done tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally an update! Consider this a holiday present ahahah it's been sitting in out drafts for a while but we didn't have a chance to edit earlier. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and please leave a comment!

**Author's Note:**

> This is something of a teaser for a much bigger story Moth and I are working on (and have been working on for a while). I was way to excited to share and thus am prematurely posting! 
> 
> We've got >15k in the drafts so stay tuned and let us know what you think!
> 
> If you haven't seen Sonnie's Edge from LOVE DEATH + ROBOTS I would highly recommend it, but it's certainly not essential for understanding this story.


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